


Interlude: Six Months

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [22]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anniversary, Gift Giving, Hotel Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Makeup, Oral Sex, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-26 22:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18291365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: “Tell me what you’d like, huh? Have a think and we’ll do somethin’.”“You mean where in the tower?” James asks.“I mean am I shuttin’ down a floor, a restaurant or a street for you, honey,” he says. “You want dinner at mine, or dinner at yours, or dinner out, you just tell me. Alright? You just think about that, sweetheart, I’ll do it, whatever you want.”“This you or the libido talkin’?” James asks with a smile, but Steve shakes his head.“I don’t know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure it’s my heart.”James blinks.“That’s,” he says.“I know, cornier’n Kansas in August,” Steve concedes, “but I want a real conversation about where we’re goin’. I’m happy to go anywhere, mind you.”James smiles a little.“I wasn’t gonna say it was corny,” he says, and Steve raises an eyebrow at him.“Itwascorny, though.”





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mom_Nicole for sending over links to look at!

The first thing Steve notices when he wakes is that he’s overslept. He’s alone in the bed, the bed is empty, and the sun is…very high.

“Jarvis,” he says, with the growing sense of ‘oh great’ that comes with knowing you’ve messed up, “what time is it?”

 _“It is eleven-oh-five, Commander, the outside temperature is sixty-one degrees and the weather is fair,_ ” Jarvis answers and then, before he’s got time to ask, _“Master James informed Nurse Bianchi that you would not be attending your appointment this morning, and has tentatively rescheduled the appointment for you, with the proviso that you may need to cancel and reschedule a second time if the amended appointment does not suit your calendar. Will one o’clock this afternoon suffice?”_

Steve pushes up onto his elbows and looks at the fresh sheets and the sunny city outside. 

“It will, thank you,” he says, and then yawns. “What do I have today?”

Because, technically, he was supposed to be on duty from Friday night, but he knows that’s not the case.

_“Your physical recuperation training begins today, should you prefer, and any involvement with your current team can be conducted from your offices. I have also been asked to inform you that Master James has spoken to his manager and is taking the morning off.”_

Steve nods, looks around the room.

“Right,” he says. “Right, okay, desk work if anything, and PT later, got it. Okay, Jarvis, thanks very much.”

 _“You are most welcome, Sir,”_ Jarvis tells him, and Steve pulls back the covers and gets up.

He’s in pajama pants, because he was feeling oversensitive when they went to bed last night. In fact, he’s surprised James managed to get up without disturbing him, considering how they went to sleep, and he goes about his morning ablutions with a sense of laziness that he doesn’t usually allow himself. He’s already late, way late. It’s a little bit of a weight on his shoulders, actually - he doesn’t like wasting entire mornings. Still, Sam would tell him getting better ain’t a waste of time so, regardless of how much Steve does or does not believe it, he knows he shouldn’t let it bother him. 

He’s shaving when the bad dream comes back to him - not much of one, just a variation on a theme. White coats, old faces, threats they wouldn’t be able to consider carrying out now, and a hand reaching for him in the dark when his feet left the ground.

There wasn’t much young Steve Rogers ever feared enough to shrink back from, but ‘not-much’ didn’t mean ‘nothing.’ 

It’s that that makes him do what he does next - he’s clean, he’s shaved, he’s used the head and brushed his teeth, and he decides that, if he wants to walk around in his pajamas in his own home, he’s allowed to do so. And so he does - hair still a mess, clad in his pajama pants, he goes to the living room, and he can smell coffee. 

James, when Steve pokes his head around the corner of the doorframe, is standing at the kitchen counter with his back turned. Steve smiles, runs his tongue over his teeth. James is dressed for work - i.e., very nicely indeed thanks - and he looks the bee’s knees in a three-piece, that’s for sure. But Steve’s spent three weeks shufflin’ and hobblin’ and what’s a better test of skill than a test of skill?

Three weeks ain’t enough to lose it, but he proves to himself he’s still got it anyway - hands out in front of him, ignoring the twinge in his hip, he makes himself as light on his feet as he can, and takes five, six, seven steps forward at a reasonable pace, breathing halted, heart-rate slowed. James doesn’t hear him coming and so, when Steve one-two-threes the last steps to grab James by his slim little hips, pressing himself up against James’ back with a growl he hopes is attractive, James says, 

“FUCK!” and throws the teaspoon of sugar he was holding across the counter.

Steve laughs as James laughs, not a moment later, and wraps his arms around James from behind, presses his face to James’ neck and kisses the thundering pulse.

 _“Ass_ hole,” James chuckles, and Steve tries to eat his way into James’ hairline as he tugs James’ hips back into the cradle of his own - James squirms but doesn’t push him back. “Good morning?”

“Hmhmm,” Steve hums a laugh through his nose, gets at James’ neck again, “fantastic morning, courtesy of a real good night-” There are five mugs on the counter. Steve clears his throat, feels his skin heat from his head to his stomach, as it always does when he blushes. “We got guests huh,” he says, and he hears James snort as he turns around. 

They have Sam, Wanda and Billy Kaplan, actually. Wanda is straightening up from looking in her bag, Billy is stretched out on the couch and, from where Steve was when he stuck his head in, Sam would have been behind a potted plant. So it wasn’t _so_ bad that he didn’t notice them. He supposes.

Okay, it was pretty bad but it’s also not his fault he was distracted.

“I’ll go get dressed,” Steve says, and makes his way back.

“Don’t feel you need to put a shirt on on our account,” Billy’s voice mutters, and Sam makes a disgusted noise as James laughs.

Steve actually _hears_ somebody smack Billy on the arm, presumably Wanda.

“What was that?” Steve yells back. “ _Where’d_ you say Teddy is?”

“He’s practicing his you-face for TV in case you’re not ready for a press conference?” Billy answers, and Steve rolls his eyes as he chuckles.

It only takes him maybe a minute to find his clothes and get dressed properly, and then - despite Sam’s expression - he does exactly what he did before and sneaks up on James.

“He’s behind you,” Billy says, _just_ as Steve’s about to touch James, and he turns back, holds his hands out.

“What the hell, _William?”_ he says.

Billy gags, which is the response Steve was hoping for.

“Your friends have a weird sense of humor,” James says, and Steve takes the tray of coffees from him, presses a kiss to his cheek.

 _“Our_ friends, honey,” he says softly, waiting just a moment to see if James was serious about it.

James doesn’t look like he was serious about.

“So like, it’s just people, right?” James says as he walks past, presumably continuing a conversation Steve wasn’t here for. 

“Yeah,” Billy answers, “but like, any people. So he can’t be a refrigerator but he could totally be you. Or the Black Widow.”

“Spock.”

“A Klingon, a twi’lek, a Zen-Whoberis yeah, sure, whatever.”

James’ eyebrows go up.

“I thought _we_ were adventurous,” he says to Steve, and Sam puts his hand out.

“It is _eleven in the morning,”_ he says, and Steve smiles a little.

“What’re y’all around for?” he says instead, and Billy looks at Wanda.

“Uh,” she says, “morning briefing?”

Steve blinks.

“Right,” he says. “Because you’re my team. Where’s everybody else?”

Billy rolls one shoulder in a shrug. 

“Upstairs,” he says. 

“Right,” Steve sighs, and he looks at James. “Okay well let’s hear it then, what are we looking at this week?”

~

James leaves for work around twelve-thirty - he doesn’t need to be at his desk until one but he’s getting milkshakes for himself and Amy, and Steve asks for a chai latte on his way back. Two in one week is excessive but it’s certainly not the worst thing he’s consumed in the past month. He doesn’t get to see James for lunch today either, given that he’s taken the morning. He should still get done at the usual hour, though, and Steve debates getting takeout or cooking. 

Once they’ve finished briefing - which was a complete joke, if Steve is honest, given that there’s literally nothing going on - Sam, Wanda and Billy head back upstairs, and Steve asks Jarvis where everybody is.

Nat and Clint are in the gymnasium, and Steve’s totally gonna head up there after he goes to see Gari. 

Gari’s off in one of the little side rooms - it’s not exactly a doctors’ office, it’s more like the little recovery room in which Steve spent the first week or so after he was shot, and he smiles as Steve walks in.

 _“«Hello,»”_ he says in Italian. _“«Sorry for the reschedule, I hope you didn’t come all the way in just for me.»”_

 _“«Not at all, I spend most of my shift here anyway, unless there’s an emergency. Besides which, I understand you were following doctor’s orders,»”_ Gari says as Steve shuts the door behind him, _“«and actually getting some rest?»”_

Steve winces.

“Uh,” he says. _“«Not quite? I needed the rest after the…»”_ he clears his throat. _“«Strenuous activity resumed itself night before last?»”_

Gari chuckles.

 _“«Well that answers your most pressing concern, I’m sure,»”_ he says. _“«In that case, I want to test your range of mobility and I’ll want the usual measurements but, as I mentioned before, your recovery pattern is fairly predictable, and your current recovery doesn’t seem to have deviated from it.»”_

Steve smiles.

 _“Grazie,”_ he says. _"«I’d also like to know what kind of training I can get back into. I’m thinking treadmill, light sparring with Natasha. She’ll go easy on me if I ask her to.»"_

Gari narrows his eyes a little.

 _"«I would imagine it will be fine, as long as you definitely ask for her to be cautious,»"_ he says. _"«Can you at least pretend you’ll wait for my go-ahead before you do it anyway?»"_

Steve laughs.

~

He lasts about ten minutes on the treadmill before he has to take a break and, though he wraps his hands, he doesn’t get anywhere near the mat. Nat, whose hair is up in a tail as she darts across the mat in black leggings and a black tank, her own hands wrapped too, gives him one look - because boy is he sweating after the treadmill - and shakes her head.

“If you wanna try it, I’ll go easy,” she says, “but I’m aiming for your stomach, and you’re out once you’re down.”

He waves her off, goes over to the punching bag, looks at it…

And then he heads straight for the showers instead.

Yeah, the treadmill was enough for today, which he _hates_ , but he’s been keeping up with the mobility exercises he was given, and he’ll come back up to the gym tomorrow. Hey, maybe he’ll even go swimming. 

~

It being the second of November, it’s also All Souls, and Steve goes back to mass in the mid-afternoon because he has a lot of dead to pray for and Veterans Day coming up fast.

It doesn’t hurt quite so much any more, and one or two of the congregants stand a little closer, one or two hold his hand a little longer at the sign of peace. Fr Mulcahy asks that they remember those losses which are old and new, that God grant them the strength to withstand such losses, and then Steve still mutters the Requiem Aeternam in Latin while most of he others say it in English. He can still taste the dust of his old church when he says the words in Latin, finds it not so difficult to imagine pale, slender fingers and wispy blonde hair, or a schoolboy smile and sparkling eyes, just beyond his field of view. Sometimes it’s difficult to feel them standing behind him, and sometimes it’s a comfort. Today is the latter, and he lists their names in his head - all of them - as he closes his eyes and prays for those he’s lost.

He doesn’t stay after mass.

***

James comes back to the apartment at about five-thirty, with a chai latte in hand. Steve had totally forgotten about it so it’s a great surprise, and James isn’t even in the door when Steve takes it off him.

“Don’t I even get a,” he manages, but he does, that’s _why_ Steve took the latte off him, and he backs James up against the wall and kisses him, gets his hands inside that suit jacket and slides them up James’ torso and kisses the living daylights out of him.

He doesn’t pull back for a while (why should he?) and goes for James’ throat when James breaks away to laugh, mindful of James’ responsiveness. He lifts his head at one point to check, and James’ skin is flushed, his lips are swollen.

“Hi!” he says, breathless, hands on Steve’s shoulders,

Steve can’t help smiling, can’t help being pleased to see him.

“Welcome home,” he says, “darling, sweetheart, honey, I need to talk to you. Ain’t nothin’ bad, I just wanna get a couple things right before we hit six months, you know?”

James’ eyebrows climb and he cocks his head.

“Oh yeah?” he says. “Like what?”

Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip.

“Where to go, what you want for the future, like that.”

James smiles a little more warmly, searches Steve’s face.

“We can talk about it over takeout?” he says hopefully, and Steve laughs, lets him stand. 

“Sure.”

~

“I could be your P.A.,” James says, halfway through his bibimap and kimchi, “nobody’d question that.”

“I don’t need a P.A.,” Steve says, but his brain catches up a moment later. “That’s not what you mean, wait, I get it.” Wow, okay, so going from too many calories to normal calories has apparently slowed his entire brain? He considers buying donuts. “What do you think, follow me around with a notebook?”

James nods, reaches over to grab the rice drink.

“Yeah!” he says. “Pretend I’m there to help. It’d be easy - you don’t actually need any help so there’d be no danger of me fuckin’ stuff up. And, and, I could just learn some set phrases.”

“Oh?” Steve says. “Commander Rogers is not available right now, but if you leave a message…”

“I’m sorry, I’m here to assist the Commander in a strictly personal manner - all requests and inquiries should still be addressed to him via existing channels. If you contact the tower, they’ll put you through to our PR department and relay your message to the relevant personnel in order to make sure the appropriate standards are met, and any interactions will then be vetted and approved.” Steve looks at him. “No questions,” James says, “no autographs, no photographs.”

God the kid is _so smart._

“Soon as I’m done eatin’ I’m takin’ you to bed,” Steve says, and James laughs. 

“No fair,” he says. “Can’t you wait until _I’m_ done eating?”

Steve snorts, goes back to his bungeoppang (this is his fifth and he’s not sorry). 

“It could work, though,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he thinks about it. “Especially if I make a show of treating you like a PA. Then we could go places and be seen together without people makin’ you for my other half. Couldn’t have too much PDA, more’s the pity, but we draw it out long enough, the papers’ll learn who you are and lose interest. By the time we make it official to the media, they won’t even be surprised. Hey, it could work, kid, it could work!”

James just gives him a look.

“Of course it could,” he says. “It’s my idea.”

Steve pokes him in the side and James doubles over sideways with a groan, but he’s grinning by the time he straightens up.

“We could go places and eat and have days out and stuff. Long as I got somethin’ to take notes on, we could say what we wanted. Right?” 

Steve looks him up and down. He looks _good_ , he looks _really_ good.

“Yeah,” he says, instead of _I want you right now_. “It’s a good idea. We can try it, for sure.”

James beams.

“And like, okay, I was thinkin’,” Steve says, “I know we’re gonna do what we always do on special occasions-”

“Sex?” James says hopefully, and Steve smiles.

“Sex,” he confirms. “And there’s a couple things I wanna give you that I have for you, but I want to take you out for dinner, and we can go wherever you’d like. Barring places with, y’know, waiting lists longer’n two weeks, obviously. ‘Cause if we was out,” he says, “if you and me could both go places, I’d take you places, but we can’t right now. So honey I want you to think about what you’d like to do for it. Six months, I wanna treat you nice, _real_ nice but I want you to like it so tell me what you’d like, huh? Have a think and we’ll do somethin’.”

“You mean where in the tower?” James asks.

“I mean am I shuttin’ down a floor, a restaurant or a street for you, honey,” he says. “You want dinner at mine, or dinner at yours, or dinner out, you just tell me. Alright? You just think about that, sweetheart, I’ll do it, whatever you want.”

“This you or the libido talkin’?” James asks with a smile, but Steve shakes his head. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure it’s my heart.”

James blinks.

“That’s,” he says. 

“I know, cornier’n Kansas in August,” Steve concedes, “but I want a real conversation about where we’re goin’. I’m happy to go anywhere, mind you.”

James smiles a little.

“I wasn’t gonna say it was corny,” he says, and Steve raises an eyebrow at him. 

“It _was_ corny, though.”

James smiles at him for a moment or two, but then the smile seems to fade a little, his gaze turns a little distant.

“Listen,” he says, “I know you said you wanted to talk about stuff but there’s…” he wets his lips. “There’s something I wanted to ask you. About me- us, you and me. Us.”

Steve finishes his mouthful and takes a drink.

“Fire away,” he says, and James chews the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“I was wondering,” he says, “about how you felt about…getting…uh.”

Steve tries to read his body language but doesn’t get far, not on what James has given him so far. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Whatever it is, you can ask. A dog, a piercing. If you-”

“Married,” James says, and Steve feels his eyebrows go up right about the time James looks like he wishes he could eat his own head. “Uh, fuck.”

“Uh,” Steve says, because wow, oh, okay, they’re…having this conversation now, that’s. 

That’s good. 

Okay, that’s good - better that they know now where they stand-

He thinks of a ring and of Bucky and of Peggy, thinks of churches and suits and bow-ties and best-men and- It’s not- He doesn’t-

“I don’t wanna get married,” James says, and all of Steve’s thoughts come grinding to a halt. 

He realizes he’s looking at the wall when he realizes he has to move his eyes to look at James, and he finds that James looks really _really_ anxious.

“Boy, we’re good at springin’ this stuff on each other, huh?”

“Actually, I think I’m the one keeps springin’ stuff on you,” James says. “But I take your meaning. Listen, we don’t have to-”

“James,” Steve says, and he tries to think about what he wants to say, tries to think about how he wants to say it. “I… _Do_ you want to..?”

James winces, swallows hard. 

Shakes his head.

“No, I…I was gonna give you a ring for…our anniversary but I realized today that it…I don’t want to.mean the wrong thing.”

Steve nods once, goes over the words and the implications in his mind for a moment.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, bear with me, okay? I’ve never said this stuff before so just bear with me, ‘cause I…used to want to get married.”

James’ brow furrows over the bridge of his nose instead of in the middle of his forehead, from anxiety to curiosity.

“I used to want to come home from the war and settle down in a house and stay at home and raise the kids while my husband and my wife ran the world. And, before that, I just wanted to be with Bucky. We wouldn’t have been able to marry, ‘course, but. That didn’t matter. Then I woke up here and I…wanted…something. But my partner wanted a family and kids and a ring and I- You know I wasn’t ready for that but I think…I think maybe ‘ready’ is the wrong way to put it.”

Steve looks down at the table, at the food they’ve been sharing.

“I know that we _can_ get married,” he says. “If we want. And if you ever want to get married, you tell me, alright? It’s not like I’m averse to it but I…You’re twenty-one and I’m. I have…I don’t think I need it the way I used to think I did. Does that make sense?”

James nods, leans forward, takes Steve’s hand.

“Yeah,” James says. “I think so.”

Steve tugs him a little closer, gets his arm around James’ shoulder. 

“So you tell me if you want me to make it official,” Steve tells him. “But…” But when you’ve loved as many people as Steve has, marrying just one of them…

Well, it doesn’t mean the same thing it used to. He’s not sure how well that will go with James, though.

“Sure,” James says. “That makes sense. That’s - sure.”

“Are you sure?” Steve says. “I have reasons but I don’t think I can phrase them very well.”

James shakes his head.

“We’re both on the same page,” he says. “And it’s prob’ly like…is it like marriage is different now for you? Or something?” 

“A little,” Steve says. “And if there’s ever a legal aspect to it that we couldn’t cover otherwise,” he says, “things that I can’t cover in a will or with the law as it is now, then we’ll discuss it again. I hope that we stay together and, if we do, and you change your mind in a year, two years, five years, whatever, we’ll discuss it again. If you want to get married…I mean, if you want to get married but you don’t feel you can approach me, just tell somebody else, one of ‘em’s bound to tell me…”

James hums a laugh through his nose and snuggles closer. 

“You know you can tell me, right?” James says. “Is it ‘cause I’m not.” Steve hears him swallow. “You wanted to get married to someone else?”

Steve sighs, narrows his eyes.

“Again, sort of? But also no. It’s more like there’s been more than one person I wanted to marry, and now. I. Don’t want to marry anybody. My perspective has changed. Uh, not that you’re not…I’m not explaining this very well-”

“It’s okay,” James says. “You don’t want to marry anybody.”

“Right,” Steve says. “I don’t want to marry anybody, at least for now. And you don’t want to be married, at least for now. You love me, right?”

“I love you.”

“And I love you, so we’re okay. We’re not getting married and we’re not breaking up. And you’re trying to think of what you’d like for a six-month anniversary dinner.”

James nods.

“Right,” he says. “That isn’t takeout.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“It can be takeout if you want,” he says. “Or it can be some fancy place we dress up for. If you want to eat churros in your pajamas, don’t let me stop you. But let me know. Okay?”

James smirks.

“Okay,” he says.

***

On Tuesday, they get literally nothing done - not at lunch or in the evening - because, at about eleven, Steve sends James a _’come upstairs for lunch’_ text, complete with winky-face emoji.

Turns out _somebody’s_ feeling a whole lot better. James will later have literally no idea how he managed to collect himself enough to go back downstairs to work, or how he managed to get anything done when he did.

***

On Wednesday, given that James was, _ahem,_ unavailable Tuesday lunch, he and Amy settle on two of the free beanbags with a milkshake each, and James looks at the ceiling.

“Steve wants to take me out for dinner,” he says, and Amy leans closer.

 _“Zhēn de ma!?”_ she says, and grabs his hand - they both nearly spill their milkshakes. “Where!?”

“I don’t know!” James says, half laughing already. “I don’t know, he doesn’t know. He wants to know where _I_ want to go, and I don’t _know_ where I wanna go.”

“I mean does dinner matter when it’s dessert that counts?”

James totally doesn’t blush when she says dessert, he totally does not think of the way Steve refers to him as dessert. 

“He wants to do something special,” James says. “Even though like a big-mac under a cloche’d do it, you know what I mean?”

Amy snorts. 

_“Měiguó rén,”_ she says, rolling her eyes. _”Měiguó nánrén,_ you could go anywhere you want and you’d take a big-mac and a big dome, you’re an idiot. Pasta in Venice, profiteroles in Paris-”

“Wieners in Germany,” he says, already laughing.

She just looks at him.

“Wow,” she says, in a tone so flat he only laughs harder.

But that’s a thought, actually. That’s something he hadn’t considered - he and Steve could go anywhere, Steve works with a jet that travels over Mach two, Steve could take him literally anywhere in the world for dinner and have him back in time to go to bed, let alone get up for work the next day. 

“It’s a Sunday,” he says.

“Oh my God, you can make it a dirty weekend!”

James passes his hand over his eyes.

“I would like a _romantic_ weekend,” he says, “and I would like you to speak a little more _quietly please.”_

She waves a hand but lowers her voice anyway.

“Fine,” she says. “But seriously, it can be both. You can get all dolled up! You got a really nice suit?”

“I do,” James says. “I could-” he could get lingerie. He could get all dolled up and wear lingerie - not much, he doesn’t like much. But stockings, nice underwear, the matching garter belt. He doesn’t like chemises and camisoles, would feel like a lunatic in a bra, but he’s already got a nice garter belt and underwear set - they do them for men and he bought one with his second paycheck - and he knows he’s got good stockings somewhere.

But, more exciting than that, he has plenty of money. He could buy a new set, _just for Steve,_ like specifically for their six month anniversary. James has always felt that giving yourself as a gift is kind of a dick move (read: arrogant, presumptuous, and cheap) but he’s had his ring from Connor for like two weeks now, and he can give that to Steve. 

“I could ask him to take me anywhere,” he says. 

“Where can I find a sugardaddy who indulges _my_ every flight of fancy?”

James shakes his head.

“I don’t have any flights of fancy,” he says. “At least, I can’t think of any. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Amy rolls her eyes.

“All that man and all that money?” she says. “That’s _terrible.”_

~

“Really?” Steve says, over dinner that evening. “You can’t think of anywhere you want to go?”

James shrugs one shoulder.

“I mean,” he says. “I used to want to see a ton of places but then I heard they’re not what they’re cracked up to be. Plus, y’know. I couldn’t think of anywhere that felt right. You know? I don’t want to stay in ‘cause we’ve been in for a month. Didn’t wanna pick a place ‘cause it’d be hard.”

Steve nods.

“Okay,” he says. “How about we go out?”

James frowns.

“Where?” 

“Anywhere,” Steve tells him. “It gets dark early, I’ll wear a beard. We can go grab street food and do tourist-y stuff, make an evening of it. And then I’ve booked us a hotel for the weekend. Still in New York, but I thought a change would be nice.”

James blinks. 

“That,” he says, and smiles. “That sounds pretty good.”

Steve smiles, too.

“Alright,” he says. “Then that’s settled.”

***

On Sunday night, after they’ve decided on what they’re doing the next week - the night out on Friday the thirteenth ( _“wooooo,”_ said James), followed by Saturday at the hotel through until checkout on Monday afternoon, for which James will work through his lunch hours in the coming week - James surprises himself.

“I’m gonna go to work in the morning,” he says, still out of breath.

Steve is splayed out on the sheets next to him, a very attractive sheen of sweat making his skin glisten, because today is the eighth, and that’s apparently, the six-month anniversary of their second fuckfest, after Steve’s head injury in Portugal. Thank you, Steve’s (almost) photographic memory.

Steve turns his head to look at him.

“Probably for the best,” he says. 

“And I was thinking about going back to my apartment.”

There is a short silence.

“Okay?” Steve says.

James looks at him - Steve’s staring, gaze intent as always, but he doesn’t look concerned. He looks pretty pleased with himself actually, not that James can blame him. James is pretty pleased with him too.

“And I’m gonna stay there for the week,” he says.

Steve’s eyebrows raise just a little.

“Was it something I said?” he murmurs, but he still doesn’t look worried. “Yeah, you don’t need my permission.”

James tilts his head a little.

“I know. But like at first I thought we could treat it like a _thing_ ,” James says. “You know? You’re not on duty, so you could go back to your place, and I could go back to my place and…we could…”

“I get it,” Steve says. “Absence makes et cetera et cetera,” Steve nods. 

“Yeah,” James says. “But Wednesday next is Veterans Day.”

Steve draws a careful breath.

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Well, I…” James says. “I mean, doesn’t that suck for you?”

Steve hums a laugh without smiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “In some ways. Don’t worry about me, though, I can always-”

“So I thought I could spend the week at mine,” James says, “but hang around with you on Wednesday night. ‘Cause Mr Stark gives us the day off, and I can’t do nothin’ with you during the day, you’ll be busy at the parade. Right?”

“Right,” Steve says, slowly.

“So we can just,” James says. “Y’know.”

“Be around each other,” Steve says, nodding. “I like that. That works.”

“’Cause I,” James says. “I wouldn’t want you to have to. Be. Alone on.”

Steve nods, reaches out and strokes James’ cheek with the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I won’t be up for much.”

“Oh well,” James says, trying to lighten the mood, “no, of course. I thought I’d save myself for the weekend anyway.”

“Oh you did?” Steve says, his smile returning, widening when James nods. “Guess I’ll have to get it while I can.” 

He rolls towards James, and James laughs, stretches under Steve when Steve winds up lying half on top of him, holds Steve’s head in his hands once Steve’s done kissing him.

“I’ll miss you,” Steve murmurs.

“I’ll miss you too. I was thinking of doing a little something,” he says. “Thought I might buy a little something nice for me to wear, to make it worthwhile.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Let me,” he says and, when James opens his mouth to protest, “please, sweetheart, let me. Let me treat you-”

“You’re gonna treat me to the whole weekend!” James says.

“I want to,” Steve says. “I’ve got the money for it, I want you to be happy and I…” His gaze turns distant, then dark, his mouth opens a little. “I want to get you the things you enjoy.”

“That’s the only reason, huh?” James says, and he already knows the answer before Steve concedes it.

“I mean,” he says, “ _I_ want to get you the things you enjoy.”

And that, that’s interesting - he’s pretty sure that’s been the case the whole time but it’s rare that Steve actually shows him. 

“Possessive, aren’t we?” 

“What kind of sugar daddy would I be otherwise?” James snorts, but Steve shakes his head. “Take my card,” he says. “Let me buy you a gift for me.” James can feel himself blushing. “Must be a good one.”

“I’m hopin’ you’ll like it,” James nods.

“Well how about that, then, this time?” Steve says. “I buy it. If I don’t like it, you haven’t spent your money on a waste of time. If I do, you can repay me by lettin’ me enjoy it. Whaddya say?”

“This is ridiculous,” James says, wriggling his shoulders against the sheets. “You’re trying to convince me to let _you_ pay for something _I_ want to _get me for you_ for our six month anniversary.”

“I can afford it,” Steve says, “I want to give you what you want, even when what you want is what I want or what you want to give me.”

James takes a second. 

“Hey,” he says. “You’re trying to confuse me.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods. “Come on. If I like it, we can talk about getting more, you can maybe pay for those.”

James frowns.

“Do you know what it is?” he says, but Steve shakes his head.

“I’m guessing a sex thing, from that pretty shade of pink you are,” he says, “but it could be new tie for all I know.”

“Could be.”

“Like to think I’m a little more adventurous than that, though,” Steve says.

James beams.

“Remind me?” he says.

Steve does.

***

They call every night, of course they do. James goes to work on Monday, and Steve goes home to Brooklyn - James knows because he texts when he gets there.

What Steve does _not_ do is use the projector. He _could_ but, he says, if they’re gonna do it, they should go the whole way. No projection, no phone sex, no video phoning, even. 

Steve tells James he can jerk off when James asks - ( _“Are you kidding? You don’t need my permission, kid”_ ) - but it’s not nearly as much fun without Steve there, without Steve’s voice in his ear, without Steve’s face on his StarkPhone screen craning his neck to see more. 

He takes Steve’s card (just an ordinary card, huh, James was expecting an Amex Black or something) and makes his purchase. He’s hoping Steve doesn’t get the receipts or the order confirmations or whatever - at least not for a while. It’d ruin the surprise.

What he gets is a pair of black lace ‘boyshorts’ (should they still be called boyshorts when they’re literally shorts for boys? Whatever) with a split at the back, and a matching garter belt. The belt is narrow, with clips for stockings and, James checks, he still has the stockings. The shorts have snaps up the sides, because it’s difficult to untangle yourself from a garter belt every time you want to go to the bathroom, but also for access, because why the hell not.

It’ll look good under his suit - he’s only got variations on black, really, black pinstripe, charcoal, there’s a very dark blue suit he’s got, too, but he’s not sure how formal he wants to go. He won’t wear the tighter pants because then you’d be able to see the lingerie outlines under it, but…

He decides on Tuesday night, when the lingerie arrives, when he’s looking at himself in his mirror, what he’s going to wear. 

~

On Wednesday, James wraps up warm and waits on 56th street, watching the wreath-laying on the live-stream on his phone.

He watches the parade process, watches the cameras find and zoom in on this year’s Grand Marshal. It’s only a matter of time until they ask Steve - at least he’s probably in a better place emotionally these days.

The cameras find Steve, too. He’s with Sam Wilson, James Rhodes and Carol Danvers. The cameras move on.

James’ fingers are cold, and his eyes are sore, by the time the parade ends, and he grabs coffee from a street vendor as he starts to make his way back to the tower.

Steve is there, home, in his apartment, when James gets there, and he’s sitting on the couch. He’s still in uniform, sitting very still, and James doesn’t suppose for a moment that he really sees the section of wall he’s looking at.

James sheds his coat, his shoes, and goes to stand by Steve. Steve gathers him close - spreads his legs and pulls James toward him until he can put his face in James’ stomach and his arms around James’ hips, and James sinks the fingers of one hand into Steve’s hair, holds the back of Steve’s neck with the other, and just breathes with him.

Steve’s much better on Thursday - when James wakes fully clothed on the bed with Steve, the way they were lying watching TV last night.

Steve says he’s doing better today and, when James asks if he’s sure, he says,

“Sometimes it helps to feel,” and serves breakfast.

Then he ushers James out of the door with a quick kiss and a swipe on the backside.

“I’ll see you Friday,” he says.

“If you’re lucky!” James answers, winking as the doors close.

Steve’s smile is definitely back.

~

On Thursday night, James takes Amy back to his apartment and puts on his makeup in front of her as a test run. 

She helps him match his lipstick to his clothes - not that he’s wearing red, of course, but he’s going to want to look well put-together - and pick out the right falsies. He does it himself, basically, but it’s nice to have her there to back his choices up.

He’s not going with color on his eyes, not going full-on smoky-eye either, just enough to accentuate. Enough to show that he’s wearing it - Steve did say he wanted James to get dolled up for him, after all.


	2. Friday November 13th

On Friday, he gets literally nothing done. He hasn’t seen Steve in a week but he’s been thinking about him constantly. It’s probably just about the longest length of time he’s spent away from Steve since he started spending days at a time at one or other of Steve’s regular abodes, and that thought raises a whole host of others that he’s not going to think about until after the weekend.

At lunch, somebody sends him a five second video of Steve coming up from a roll onto bare feet on mats. Steve’s wearing gray sweats and no socks, and a white tee that’s wet at the collar. 

In those five seconds, he comes up ready to fight, fists up in front of him, taped but not gloved. Somebody goes to kick him in the head, and his whole body bends backwards as he avoids it, and then, just as he snatches at the ankle, halting said leg in mid-movement, the video stops. It’s titled ‘your better half’s feeling better’ and it comes from Steve’s number but was evidently neither filmed nor sent by Steve himself.

James will have to find out who it was that sent the message and thank them later for it.

At Friday lunchtime, he tries to watch YouTube videos with Amy, but he can’t stop running his fingers over the zipper of the hardshell backpack - in which are his changes of clothes and his toiletries, his chargers, and a couple of other fun things - can’t stop thinking about the evening. He’s got good shoes for walking, he’s got the coat Steve bought him, he’s got his ring for Steve from Connor’s store, and - _and_ \- he’s got his lingerie in his bag, right at the bottom, still in the fancy tissue paper it came in.

He shaved yesterday and he’ll wear them on Sunday night - even though the original plan was to get into them on Sunday morning. He doesn’t know what Steve’s planned, though, so there’s no way he’s sitting on stocking clips and lace seams all day, only to go out walking around town in them too. For starters, who knows how sweaty he’ll get? He doubts sweaty, twisted-up lace would be nearly as sexy.

He also has, on his desk, a jar, in which sits a vase of flowers. A mix of white sweetpeas and red roses. Apparently, they mean love, desire, and pleasure, so they totally work. And, if not, maybe Steve will just like them because they’re nice. And James bought chocolates too just in case Steve is super traditional.

(He’s a bisexual catholic centenarian superhero. Yeah, totally traditional.)

After Friday lunch, James is jigging his leg and tapping his fingers - which he knows ‘cause Amy hates it and she has to tell him twice. 

He answers his emails but he’s all up to date, he goes through the next portion of his coding but he needs Connor’s approval to mark it as done. He asks Amy if she needs anything, and even goes and gets milkshakes, but it’s still only three and he doesn’t get off until four.

“Amy I’m dying,” he says. “I am actually gonna die.”

“You are if you don’t shut up,” she says.

~ 

James opens the clock on his desktop. Three fifty-nine, and forty-seven seconds. The sun is well on its way to setting and the city’s alight already.

He _watches_ his clock.

“You’re awful,” Amy says, and a little notification pops up in the middle of James’ screen.

_P ROCEED DOWNSTAIRS TO THE UNDERGROUND LOT_

James feels his mouth drop open.

Is he not going upstairs to meet Steve? Well, evidently not but, okay?

“What?” Amy says.

“I’m…not going…I mean, I’m going down to the lot? I guess? I got a message, he messaged me, I’m going down to the lot.”

Amy’s eyebrows go up.

“Right?” she says. “Take photos.”

“What?” James says, and she shrugs.

“It’s not like he’s takin’ you to like a highway motel, have a great weekend and _take pictures_ of like the penthouse suite or the condo or whatever, wherever.”

James laughs, but then he looks at the clock.

Four, and thirteen seconds.

“Nice,” he says, and then he logs off. “See you Monday afternoon!”

“Boooo,” Amy says as James dashes off. “Have fun!”

He waves, and heads to the stairs so he can go up a floor and then take the Avengers elevator down to the lot and avoid the crowd of people leaving for the day. 

~

When he gets down to the lot, Dana from security is standing next to a limousine. It’s not a huge, long, flashy thing, it’s maybe a car and a half. But it’s low, and black, and it shines like a showroom car - shines like Steve’s midnight blue pearl supercar - and there’s no mistaking it for an ordinary street car. That’s a car VIPs ride in, if ever James saw one. The windows are blacked out, for God’s sakes.

“Hi,” James says.

“Good evening, Mister Barnes,” she says, and she’s smiling. “Commander Rogers left instructions that I transport you to your meeting point”

She opens the back door for him.

“Are you kidding?” James says. “This is nuts.”

“Right?” Dana grins. “There’s even an anti-spill vase space in the limo - hop in, I’ll show you where you can put the flowers.”

James laughs, and gets in.

***

They drive for a while, made longer by the beginnings of rush-hour traffic, and James people watches and checks his phone. No messages since the video. He tries to busy himself online but doesn’t do too well.

They drive out of Manhattan and over Brooklyn Bridge, and James thinks of all the places he could be going. Steve said they weren’t leaving NYC, but it’s not like NYC is small, and he watches the lights on the water, the traffic around them. 

They get off the bridge, and James expects them maybe to be going to Steve’s, to pick him up or something but, instead, they follow the road round, under the express way, and out towards the water. 

When Dana slows down as they turn off Old Fulton street and onto Furman street, James frowns and looks out the window, and she hangs another right into the little parking lot not a hundred yards past the crosswalk. It’s almost five in the evening, and they’re maybe a mile and a half, two miles, from where Steve lives.

“You can leave your bag and the flowers,” she says as they turn, “I’ll pick you up later.”

James feels his eyebrows go up. 

She pulls up, puts it into park, and then gets out, and James is halfway to wondering where the fuck she’s going when she appears at his door.

“Oh God,” he says as she opens it. “Sorry!”

She laughs.

“It’s my job, you’re VIP number one tonight. And, if you please,” she says as he gets out without his bag or the flowers, “your escort.”

She holds out a hand toward the nearly-bare trees on the other side of the lot, and…

Standing under a streetlamp, lit from above like a Caravaggio, is a dark-haired man in a thick wool coat and pale blue scarf, a disposable coffee cup in each gloved hand, breath coming in wispy clouds in front of him. His beard is neat but thick, and his hair is long enough that it brushes the turned up coat collar, falling in artful strands over his forehead, his eyes intense as he stares.

The gray at his temples makes James smile. He dyed his hair dark only to leave the gray. 

James doesn’t run across the lot. He walks around the edge of it, all wrapped up in the coat and scarf and gloves Steve bought him, eyes on Steve, step after step - it’s been almost five whole days. He feels pulled on a string, like a magnet, it’s inexorable. He half wants to run - his heart races and it’s difficult to keep air in his lungs.

Steve watches him walk all the way around without moving, doesn’t come to join him but he hands James a paper cup as he gets right up to him.

James feels like his hair’s standing on end with the way Steve’s looking at him, feels like his skin is buzzing. He could reach out and touch him right now, could pull him down and kiss him, could put his arms around Steve, could do any number of things.

“I missed you,” Steve says, his voice low and rich and smooth, “but we can play this however you want. I’m happy to kiss you right now, or we can go for the walks I planned.”

James considers it. He swallows hard, wets his lips. Steve’s lips look soft, inviting, the turn up at one corner and James has missed the taste of them. 

“Where are we going?” he says instead, and Steve smiles, his eyes glittering.

James can see himself in them, what with the light shining on his face and Steve having to look down at him.

“Just around Pier One,” he says. “Nobody in Brooklyn’s gonna look at us with a view like that, and nobody in Brooklyn’ll give a damn even if they recognize me. Besides which-” and he reaches into one coat pocket and retrieves what turns out to be a spiral-bound notebook, “we can always hide pleasure with business.”

The way Steve says it, the way his mouth forms the word ‘pleasure,’ makes James’ knees feel wobbly, and James searches his face, looks at the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his chest.

He takes the notebook.

“Yes, Sir, Commander Rogers,” he says, quietly, and Steve just stares at him a few seconds longer. 

Then he turns and, slowly, offers James his elbow.

“Shall we?” he says.

~

There are couples out already, one or two people walking by themselves. Steve turns his head surreptitiously as a someone student-y with a DSLR leans on the railing to take a photo of the Manhattan bridge behind the Brooklyn bridge. James smiles, ducks his head too, but Steve leads him to the railing soon enough - it’s before the steps, further up from where the tourists like to congregate.

“Happy anniversary weekend,” Steve says softly, as they settle their arms on the railing.

Manhattan’s lit up, sparkling as it towers upward in huge, reaching swathes, glittering in the darkness and in the water of the river. It does look amazing and, even though Manhattan’s half an hour from James’ childhood home, even though he sees the view every day if he’s coming into work from home, he can’t remember the last time he took the time to stand on the waterfront and look at it.

“Yeah,” he says, beaming. “Happy anniversary weekend!”

Steve smiles back, perfect white teeth in warm, low light. 

“You’re not too cold?” Steve says, because it’s November and they’re right by the river, but James shakes his head, looks at the rows of office lights on the rectangles of the skyscrapers in Battery Park City, at the strings of stars that seem to line the Brooklyn Bridge.

“I’m fine,” James says, shaking his head at the city. “I always forget how pretty it is. It’s, you know, it’s weird? Like, I live here. I know what all those buildings are but they’re so…”

Steve nods.

“I know,” he says. “The skyline’d changed when I got back but the bridge and the river…Doesn’t matter how big it is or how many movies you see it in, home’s home.”

James thinks for a second, and then reaches for his phone. He finds his camera app, takes a photograph of the back of Steve’s head, with the two bridges lit up behind him, and Steve’s head turns at the shutter-sound.

“Come stand with me,” he says, holding out his free hand. “Come stand with me, I want one together.”

James feels himself blushing - why? Why after six months is that what makes him blush? - and flips the camera, holds out the phone. 

“Nono, here,” Steve says, “let me.”

He takes James’ phone - it makes sense really because, firstly, Steve’s arms are longer so he can actually get a picture of the both of them without cutting off chins or foreheads, and Steve’s taller, too, so James gets a better selfie angle.

He grins as Steve goes to press the button, but then Steve doesn’t press the button, just pretends he’s trying not to smile. James tries not to laugh - he’s not going to be able to keep a straight face forever. But that’s the plan, it seems, because as soon as he laughs, Steve presses the button, and then hands the phone back to James. 

James looks at the photograph immediately, can’t wait to see it, and what he sees is himself, looking just about the happiest he’s ever seen himself, and Steve.

Steve who looks like an ordinary guy, who’s smiling with his whole face, whose grin is wide and whose eyes sparkle, whose brow is smooth and whose affection burns as bright as his happiness.

Steve looks like a person - not like a superhero or a national icon, not like a soldier or a fighter. Just James and Steve, with the city they work in over one shoulder, and the city they were born in over the other.

Two Brooklynites in love. He smiles.

Steve’s smiling too, when James looks at him and, for a long time, they don’t say anything at all.

~

After standing at the railing, they walk further down, head up the stairs at the Granite Prospect. They walk slow, arm in arm, and James’ coffee warms him just enough to him to feel cozy, and he looks back. Through the branches of the nearly-bare trees, he can see 120 Wall Street, short and tapered and pale, which he’s always loved. It’s huge but it’s unassuming against the larger buildings, and Steve, when James looks at him, is staring too.

“Y’okay?” he says.

“Mm,” Steve answers, turning back so they can continue on their way. “One-twenty was finished in 1930. ‘S like an old friend.”

James’ feet move along with Steve’s as they set off again but, for a long few moments, he just looks at the side of Steve’s face. Steve doesn’t seem sad, doesn’t seem rueful. It must be bittersweet for him, James is sure.

He squeezes Steve’s arm in his own, and looks at the way the dappled light from the streetlamps through the branches paint moving pictures over Steve’s skin.

The air’s crisp, though it smells of the city. There’s a frost in the air, too - the scent of it low and rough like woodsmoke, settling heavy in the back of James’ throat. The coffee’s welcome over it - it’s a nice blend, wherever it’s come from. 

James checks the label - TCB. Of course - he smiles.

They go all the way through the Pier One park, following the curve around and, when they leave it, they’ve been walking for maybe ten minutes when James says,

“Where are we going?” and Steve smiles.

“The Bridge,” he says. “Because I love it, and because I haven’t walked it in a while, and because I want to walk it with you. Are you okay to keep going?”

“Yeah,” James says, smiling. “Yeah, it’s…It’s fine, I, I’d love to. Yeah.”

And so they keep walking. 

Up onto the bridge, people passing them in both directions, and James sticks to the edge so he can look out at the river, at the city.

“You know, I’ve only walked across twice,” James tells him, “when I was like….fifteen and eighteen.”

Steve looks down at him, pulls them over to one side so they can look out at the water, disgruntled New Yorkers ignoring them to walk around them left and right.

“I didn’t have a reason to go to Manhattan for years,” he says. “But I always loved lookin’ out at the water. Wonderin’ how far out it went. I knew, ‘course, it’s not like there ain’t maps. But…There’s somethin’ about looking at the water. Came here at night, once or twice, Bucky near lost his mind once.”

James looks at him.

“Didn’t tell him where you were?” he says.

Steve nods.

“Something like that,” he says. “Ask me again when it’s not all about you.”

“What?” James laughs. “It’s supposed to be all about _us_.”

“Same difference,” Steve says, and James turns to face him.

“Steve,” he says, and he doesn’t want to do this now but Steve’s put it off every time he’s tried to bring it up, “you keep saying stuff like that and we keep not talking about it. You told me about your ex and how you communicate now but like…You, I... I love you, okay, I _love_ you-” that was a little loud and he looks left and right as he lowers his voice again but this is New York, nobody’s interested “-I know you want to buy me stuff and treat me to things, and I know you want to put me first all the time but can you…” James sighs, and Steve looks pained. “Can you understand that I want to do that, too?”

“I don’t need anything, kid, I just-”

“I don’t need anything either,” James says. “There’s stuff I’d like but I’ve _got_ what I need. Family. You. Next level down, I’ve got a job and a place and friends I care about who care about me. And I love my shirts and my coat and my food and my coffee and my tech. But I don’t need them to love you, and I don’t need them to know you love me.”

“James, I can afford it all, okay?” Steve says, still not getting it. “Don’t worry about-”

“No, wait,” James says, and then realizes he’s interrupted, “sorry but…no, just, just wait. You know when I tried to buy you coffee?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

“And you know when I tried to…” he definitely lowers his voice this time “…when I did that stuff for you? The day after you had that _dream_ you know?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah.”

“I know that you don’t like to do things without…reciprocating?” he tries. “Like, you like it when we’re equal, when, y’know. You scratch my back.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, a third time.

“Well I want you to know that it’s not a like for like. Okay? It’s nice sometimes but…I don’t need that. Sometimes I want to do things _because I love you._ I don’t want anything back.”

Steve’s mouth twists.

“See, this is what I was trying to avoid,” he says. 

James tries not to be pissed.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he says, not quite succeeding, and Steve frowns. 

“James,” he says. “I don’t want an argument.”

“I don’t either,” James says, and he slides his arm back into Steve’s, leans against him. “I just…I’m.” He wets his lips. “I’m gonna tell you. Okay? From now on, I’m gonna say stuff like, ‘I’m doing this because I want to.’ ‘You don’t have to pay me back.’ ‘I love you because I love you, not because you buy me cool stuff and live in a cool house.’ ”

“I do buy you cool stuff though. And I live in a cool house.”

“Hell yeah you do,” James smiles. Then he rocks back and forth, as though he’s shaking Steve by the arm, talks through gritted teeth. “Just. Let. Me. Love. You.”

Steve’s mouth pulls up at the corner, he opens his mouth. 

“Actually,” James says, before Steve can speak, “let me rephrase that - let me love you for you, not your stuff or your bod. Just, for you.”

Steve’s mouth twitches at ‘bod’ but his smile fades, and his eyes narrow slightly.

“That’s very difficult sometimes,” he says, very quietly, and James nods.

“I know,” he says. “You’re a superhero who grew up in the Depression.”

“Oh, that’s what does it, huh?” Steve says.

“You want a character breakdown?” James says. “Really?”

Steve lets go of him again, leans back against the rail to face him, lifts his chin in a challenge.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Why not?”

“Anybody do you any favors when you were younger, or’d you have to work for everything you had?”

“Everything except Bucky,” Steve nods.

“So stands to reason you’re suspicious of favors now, right?” he says, and Steve’s mouth opens slightly. “Even if it’s not favors. Even if it’s just that people care about you.”

“I hate owing money, too,” Steve says. “Anything else?”

“Bet you didn’t like gettin’ more gifts at Christmas than you gave, either, huh?”

Steve draws a deep breath and sighs, very slowly. 

“We gonna finish this walk or what?”

James smiles, a little sheepishly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re not mad at me?”

“Mainly I’m annoyed at me,” he says. “Because you’re right.” There it is, that’s what James needed to know Steve believed, he feels his chest un-squeeze. “Knowin’ you’re right don’t make it any easier to hear, but then again, it never did. And I came a lot further listening to true stuff I didn’t wanna hear than I ever did tryin’ t’ignore it.” He sticks out an elbow again. “Come on,” he says. “Don’t wanna miss the boat.”

James laughs, but holds himself a little closer to Steve this time, sipping the last of his ever-colder coffee.

~

Steve, it turns out, was not kidding. 

He didn’t mean, they’d miss an opportunity, lose a reservation or something, he meant _they’d miss the boat._

“A harbor tour?” James says as they walk down the pier, having discarded their cups in a trashcan on the way.. “Are…really? We’re-”

Someone comes out of the little ticket office booth thing and holds up their hands.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “we’re booked up for- _Oh._ ”

“Hi,” Steve says, slips her a fifty, wow, “you are indeed. We’re under ‘Randy Stranger,’ I believe. Table for two?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr Stranger,” 

He pronounces it ‘St-rang-uh,’ but she pronounces it ‘Stranger,’ and doesn’t say a word about who he is even though she must have recognized him to be in on the joke.

Random Stranger, what a doof. 

Also, James is amused to realize, the initials are R.S., which, written surname first in a reservation ledger, would read S.R. 

“How’d you ever manage undercover work at all?” he says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“You sound like,” he says, but cuts himself short and then looks apologetic as they board.

“Well,” James concedes, “I mean, she’s good at her job, right?”

“She is,” Steve says - he must have been here before because he knows his way around. 

“I can live with knowing my opinion of your terrible pseudonyms is backed up by world-renowned undercover operatives, even if said operatives don’t like me.”

Steve laughs disbelievingly. 

“Glad to hear it,” he says. 

~

Steve has booked _the boat._

They get inside, to the Plexiglass-domed dining area, and James realizes the place is empty and figures out why before he can even voice his confusion over the fact the lady said they were booked up. 

“We need privacy,” Steve says. “Privacy I can manage.”

“How much did this _cost_?” James asks and then, just as Steve shakes his head, James holds up a hand. “Yeah, you’re right, don’t tell me.”

Steve takes James’ coat, pulls James’ chair out at the table, and James takes his seat, watches as Steve takes his own coat off.

Steve is wearing a black pants, black belt, black shoes, black socks, and a thin, black sweater over a crisp, white shirt that’s open at the collar. He runs one hand through his hair as he sits, and then he looks like a college professor that someone’s already dragged somewhere and messed up before letting him back out on the street - he looks good, and James doesn’t doubt it’s been done on purpose.

“You’re like the sexiest person I’ve ever seen,” James says, and Steve laughs. 

“I wasn’t sure how formal to go,” he says. “I figured if I get it wrong, there’s always the next one.”

James scrapes his teeth over his lower lip.

“I guess so,” he says. _I hope so._ And why not? “I hope so.”

Steve smiles.

A waiter attends them a few minutes later, and Steve tells him to order whatever he’d like.

~

Dinner is quiet and sweet, soft easy-listening jazz piped through the speakers. There are almost no lights, save for a few that’ll be needed to transport food to and from the table, so the view of the city as it passes is mostly unimpeded.

James remembers to take a couple of pictures - of the view and of his food - for Amy.

They share _caviar_ as a _starter_ , and then he has lobster bisque and maple chicken, which he rounds off with warm butter cake and coffee. 

Steve diverges at the entrées, and has short rib followed by New York cheesecake instead. 

It takes them two and a half hours to go all the way out and around, and it’s beautiful.

The water’s inky black and shimmers with the light of the city, the sky dark but hazy with the glow. The engine hums soft beneath them, and Steve reaches out across the table when they’re done and just holds James’ fingers in his palm.

“I don’t know how far this goes,” he says and, for one ridiculous moment, James thinks he means the boat, “but you’re the best thing to happen to me for a long time. And I, I don’t like to get too serious about it. This isn’t a marriage proposal, don’t worry. I know it’s only been six months and you’re young, and I’m not, but I really…” He shakes his head, looks out at the city for a long few moments before he looks back at James. “I’m so grateful for whatever brought you to me.”

“Tony Stark,” James says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“I take it back,” Steve says.

James laughs, closes his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he says, and looks up again. “For loving me back.”

Steve is staring at him silently, his expression soft, his eyes dark. There’s so much love in his expression that James is overwhelmed, and he knows that Steve would kiss him now, were it not for the table - and James’ anonymity - between them.

~

The boat pulls in at Chelsea Piers on the other side of Manhattan. James doesn’t see what Steve slips the attendant this time but he saw the tip and it made his eyes bug out.

“Where next?” he says, and Steve looks around, squints at the buildings and then back out towards New Jersey (boo) and the boat.

“If you’re tired, I’ll call Dana,” Steve says. “But if not, I thought we could walk the High Line.”

James looks at him, looks at their surroundings, then checks his watch.

They have an hour until it closes.

“How far is it?” James says. “It’s not far, right?” 

“About five minutes in-” he points “-that direction.”

James bites his lip.

It’d take half an hour to walk at a reasonable speed, and they won’t be going too fast.

“Sure,” James says, because that would take them to ten p.m., or thereabouts. “And, then the hotel?”

“Then the hotel,” Steve nods. “Which has a very big bed, lots of nice, expensive surfaces, and room service.”

“Ooh,” James grins, leaning heavily on Steve because he knows he can. “Room service!”

~

The Highline Park is quiet, for the most part, by the time they get up there. They link arms, and then James rests his free hand on Steve’s arm, too. Steve covers James’ hand with his own. 

They walk at a reasonable pace, talk about what they did during the week, about the way the city looks in the dark, about the way the Highline’s been renovated and lit and…

They just talk. They just spend time together and talk and James looks at the side of Steve’s head and…

Marriage isn’t something he wants. A suit and a registry office and family and friends - no. 

But he looks at Steve in the warm light of the Highline Park, whose eyes are alight when he talks about his work or his interests, whose teeth are white and whose breath makes clouds in the crisp air, and he realizes - with a sudden drop of his stomach and a warmth in the middle of his chest - that he could look at, and talk to, and live with this man for the rest of his life.

“Y’okay?” Steve says, and James take a second to regain his ability to speak.

“Yeah,” he breathes, smiling because he can’t help it, “I’m…” he shakes his head. “I’m. Never better.”

Steve smiles too, squeezes James’ fingers under his own, and then goes back to talking about the architecture.

James loves him so much.

~

They come down off the High Line, and find that Dana is smiling by the open back door of the limo, but she holds up her free hand as they approach.

“Did you want your bag now?” she says pointedly. “Or at the hotel? I can keep them out of your way if you’d like.”

She’s a lifesaver.

“Could I have them at the hotel, please?” James says, and flashes her a grin, and a thumbs up when Steve stands aside to let him get in first.

She gives him a wink, and then James gets in, Steve gets in behind him, and she’s closing the door.

“Thanks, Dana,” Steve says, and then he looks at James. “I thought we’d head to the hotel now,” he says. “I don’t have anything else planned, really - I wanted to wine and dine you tonight given that I haven’t since you for a week.”

“It’s been almost five days,” James chuckles, and Steve nods, leans forward, cups James’ cheek in his hand.

“Is that all?” he says, and then kisses James softly, deep and slow. 

His hand goes back, cradles the back of James’ skull, and James feels small and warm and happy - _safe_ , his brain explains a moment later - and hums softly as he gets one hand on Steve’s knee.

 _“The pilot has turned on the fasten-seatbelt sign,”_ Dana’s voice comes through the intercom. 

She’s put up the partition but James knows they’re predictable, and Steve smiles as he rolls his eyes when he pulls back to fasten his seatbelt.

As soon as James has managed to fasten his own, Steve’s hand slides up his leg, and he makes a very embarrassing yelp noise without meaning to. Steve’s laughter is soft and low, delighted rather than disdainful, and then they’re kissing again as the limo pulls out.

James doesn’t know where they’re going, because Steve hasn’t told him, but they cross midtown in maybe fifteen minutes.

James thinks maybe they’re going back to the tower? But they go _past_ the tower, up Park Avenue and pulls up at…

“The Waldorf Astoria?” James says. “Nice!”

“Hmm, you wait,” Steve answers. “The Presidential Suite was a little too steep for me, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Uh, no? I’ve heard it’s like ten grand a night or something?”

“Twelve,” Steve says, “which is money better spent on those who need it. But, as far as treating you is concerned, don’t worry - I did book us the Signature.”

“Signature?” James says, looking up at the facade of the building.

“Mhm,” Steve says, “and I checked in this morning, so you don’t have to worry about anybody seeing us.”

Dana opens the door for him a moment later, and James knows his mouth’s hanging open but can’t seem to help it.

“Are you serious?” he says. “Until _Monday_?”

“Three nights, two and a half days,” Steve says. “All to ourselves.”

James can feel how widely he’s grinning, and he looks back at Steve. 

“I mean, this is gonna be awesome,” he says. 

He hears Steve unbuckle his seatbelt, too.

“I certainly hope so,” he says.

James doesn’t doubt it for a second.

***

The Signature suite of the Waldorf Astoria in New York is just about he last place James ever expected to find himself, alongside maybe the helipad of the Burj Al Arab. He’ll have to be careful about mentioning _that_ \- it’s the type of thing Steve might immediately book if James happens to hint at it.

The lobby of the hotel was enough - white marble, gilded rails, art deco everywhere and a ceiling so high James thought he’d need binoculars - but this? Their - for the next three nights and two and a half days - personal seven hundred and fifty square feet of one of the Waldorf Astoria’s best suites is more than enough for James. Too much, really, if he’s honest. To start with, they walk into _a foyer_. A hotel room with _a foyer_ which is a _separate room_. There’s a living area with a couch, seats, poufs and blue and gold striped pelmets over the blue and white striped curtains. 

James has only ever been places with like…two single beds, a bathroom and a closet. And, on one accidental occasion, a wet room instead of a bathroom. (Turns out he had to _opt out of_ accessibility for that one place, what the hell.) And all of it in one room, sometimes with a coffee maker if he’s been lucky.

But this?

He takes his shoes off immediately and puts them by the door, and Steve laughs as he turns on the lights. 

“I know. You almost don’t wanna touch the furniture, right? And I’ll definitely be donating a lot to charity in the next few days ‘cause I mean…y’know it opened in ‘31,” Steve says, “the original was where the Empire State building is now but this one?” He shakes his head. “I remember seein’ it a couple times an’ thinkin’ how much I hated a place built so rich when me and my friends were barely even scrapin’ by.”

“Really?” James says, and Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t have friends - I meant just me and Buck.”

James laughs, and Steve turns to look at him.

“Sorry, I thought you meant you didn’t really hate it,” he says, and Steve smiles ruefully.

“Nah, I hated a lot back then. Most of it purely on principle, but some of it with good reason. Come on in, I’ll show you around.”

Steve checked in earlier in the day, of course - got everything ready. Which reminds James, actually, how the hell is his stuff-

There’s a knock at the door, and Steve appears in the doorway of the main room again. 

“That’s your bags, prob’ly,” he says. “Want me to-”

“No!” James says, because the flowers will be with his bag. “No, I got it.”

Steve looks at him, eyes sparkling.

“You got the tip, too?” he says, and James says,

“Uh,” but Steve’s already holding money out for James to use. “God, you really are my sugar daddy.”

“You keep saying that like you didn’t know,” Steve says, glancing around the foyer that he’s paid for. “Take the money, answer the door, come inside and help me try out the furniture, yes?”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

When James turns around and opens the door, it is indeed the bellman. James smiles, takes his bag and the flowers, and tips the guy. The guy’s eyebrows - Dominic, it says on his badge - go right up and he says,

“Thank _you,_ ” like bellguys in movies, tucks the money into his jacket.

James smiles and closes the door after him and then he puts his bag and the flowers down. The flowers are still fresh.

“You still in the main room?” he calls out.

“Ahuh,” Steve answers, so James takes his coat off and leaves his gloves on, and then he picks up the flowers and goes on into the main room.

Steve’s closing the curtains against the backdrop of the city, and James walks almost right up to him before he turns around, smiling.

He freezes when he sees the flowers, frowns.

James holds them out a little.

“They’re,” he says. “I.”

“These are…for me?” Steve says, very quietly and, when James nods, he holds both hands out and cradles the bouquet in his hands as though he’s afraid it might break. “James.”

“I, uh,” James says, “I didn’t know if you like flowers but I figured they, that you…” he sort of trails off as he hands them over, and Steve’s expression turns gentle, his mouth tugs up at the corners. 

With one hand, he tucks the flowers against his shoulder like a baby and, with the other, he reaches out and cradles James’ skull. He leans down and kisses James, flowers safely out of the way, and then he ducks his head to look into James’ eyes.

“Nobody ever gave me flowers?” he says, and he looks bemused but happy which, yeah, James is pleased with that.

“Nobody?” he says as it registers, and Steve rolls one shoulder in a shrug. 

“I mean,” he says, thinks about it for a moment. “No? No, I’ve bought flowers for the room and I’ve seen flowers for decoration and people have _handed_ me flowers to spruce my apartment up but nobody’s…ever _given me_ flowers, darling, this is so sweet.”

James is surprised by the endearment for a moment, it’s not one of Steve’s regular ones, but it’s not the first time he’s used it. James likes that he doesn’t use it often - he hasn’t heard many people who can say it and sound as genuine as Steve.

Steve’s smile is growing, James can see it. He can also see the flush beginning to color Steve’s cheeks, and then he’s just as surprised, just as pleased.

“Are you blushing?” he says, wrinkling his nose - Steve really is adorable.

“I,” he laughs, looking down at the flowers. “Nobody ever gave me flowers before.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and then looks at James again. “Aw.”

James just smiles - can’t help it. He doesn’t often see Steve look as openly surprised as this, especially while looking so delighted. 

“I don’t have flowers,” Steve says. “Or chocolates - we could order chocolate?”

I brought chocolates too!” James says. “They’re in my bag and I. Uh, I should have just shown you, I ruined the surprise.”

Steve laughs.

“That sounds great,” he says, still smiling.

“And, uh, hot chocolate?” James says. “Maybe? Unless I really don’t want to see the prices on the room service menu.”

“You’re not _gonna_ see the prices on the room service menu,” Steve says. “You just let your sugar daddy handle that one.”

James has to hide his face he blushes so hard - luckily Steve’s already in the bedroom.

James goes to follow him and finds that the room is empty but holy _shit_. The bed looks like a cloud. The bed looks like something that James can go to sleep in and wake up in under golden sunlight like they do in the movies, crisp, white bedding and firm pillows. There are armchairs - more windows?! - and then Steve comes out from a room James assumes is a closet until Steve then goes over to the actual closet on the other side of the room.

“Is that the bathroom?” James says, pointing to the door Steve just came through.

“Eventually,” he says. “There’s a dressing room first but it’s right through that.”

James hurries through to go see. 

The bathroom’s _marble_. Is this what hotel suites are like? 

His flowers are resting carefully in the sink, which has water in it, and James smiles but…

What surprises him most, he thinks, is that he’s not nearly as impressed by the size as he might have been before. The room (the suite) is lavish, full of big, plush furniture that will dwarf James when he uses it, but the actual suite?

Steve has a warehouse conversion and a floor to himself at Stark Tower. 

James goes back through the dressing room and into the bedroom.

“Yours is bigger,” he says, as he becomes aware of Steve saying “hot chocolates,” and Steve, whose back was turned, turns to face him with raised eyebrows - and a phone clamped between his cheek and his shoulder.

James shuts his mouth so fast it clicks, and Steve, hands occupied by the room service menu, nearly bends double with silent laughter, eyes screwing up as he smiles a broad, white open-mouthed smile.

James knows his grimacing, but Steve waves the menu at him.

“Sure,” he says to whichever unfortunate member of staff is on the other end of that phoneline, “that’d be great. May I have a couple of gelatos and red velvet cakes as well, please, aaaand…a pizza with everything on it?” He nods. “Yep, everything.” He nods again. “Thank you very much.”

He hangs up, and he’s still smiling a little.

“What are you up to?” he says, in a way that’s merely interest rather than accusation. “Everything to your liking?”

“Mmm,” James says, “sorry about the phonecall.”

Steve shakes his head and puts the menu down.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he says, “I’m sure it’s the highlight of their evening - thought we’d get food delivered so we don’t have to disturb anybody after.”

‘After’ sends a thrill through James, and he walks towards Steve, holds out a hand.

“Good,” he says. 

“I just need to call the concierge for a vase, and then I’ll be right with you.”

“Oooh, _concierge,_ ” James says, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“I can speak French if that’s what you want,” he says, but James laughs, holds up a hand.

“You can stick to English for me,” he says. 

~

The food arrives a reasonable amount of time later. James spends some time unpacking, as apparently does Steve. His suitcase - a nice, sleek black thing on wheels - _unfolds itself_ after he gives it a code. 

“What,” James says.

“I know,” Steve answers. “Still Tony. In fact, I guarantee you that, the hotel room notwithstanding, any time you see something that makes you go-” he pulls the best dumbfounded face James has ever seen “-it’s Tony.”

They put clothes in the closet and other things in nightstands, and still more in the bathroom. James doesn’t unpack his lingerie, however, because Steve will see, and it isn’t time for that yet. Instead, he waits for room service to knock, and then goes to answer the door because he’s fully dressed and he answered it last time. Plus, he’s less recognizable - which is the excuse he gives Steve anyway.

Steve gives him another tip to provide, and the guy actually comes inside with the trolley! 

“Oh,” James says. “Are- Do you need me to take that?”

“You…can,” the dude says - this one’s called Casey, “or I can come in and put your selections on the table in the living area. Is that acceptable for you?”

“Uh, yeah?” James says. “Yeah, that’s…” he steps back, out of the way, holds out a hand although Casey probably knows where the main room is, duh. “Yeah, thanks. I, thanks.”

Casey nods, goes through with the trolley and, just as he said he would, begins putting the items on the table. Steve appears in the doorway halfway through, leans against the frame with his legs crossed at the ankles.

“This is great, thanks,” he says, and Casey nods with a polite smile.

If he notices who Steve is, he doesn’t show it at all. James gives him the tip when he’s finished, and Casey smiles politely again.

“Thank you,” Steve says, and James nods.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling entirely inadequate.

Casey nods.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

James and Steve both follow him through to the door, and James opens the door for him.

“Enjoy your stay,” Casey says, and James nods.

“We will!” he says.

And, when James closes the door behind him and turns to face Steve, Steve is a tall, broad shape in the doorway to the main room, one forearm up against the frame by his head, his head down, his eyes dark.

“Hungry?” he says.

James wets his lips.

“I’ll go take a shower,” he says.

“What a good idea,” Steve says, “I think I’ll take one too.”

~

They have the pizza after the individual shower ends up a together-shower. James has finished all his prep when Steve knocks on the door to ask if he can come in, and he proceeds to hoik James’ legs up around his hips, pins James to the (cold!) marble wall, and grind their hips together until they’ve both come, gasping under the steady flow of water.

Steve lets him down onto unsteady legs and says, “go start on the pizza,” which James does. 

He redresses first.

Steve gets out of the shower when James is just starting his second slice, and he won’t want much more than that, which means Steve can have the rest. 

Still though, Steve - who emerges in a fluffy white bathrobe, toweling his hair with a black towel that he must have brought from home to avoid staining the hotel’s pristine white ones with hair dye - looks confused when he sees James dressed and sitting on one of the poufs next to the low coffee table on which the food sits.

“Goin’ somewhere?” he says softly, coming to sit next to James instead of across from him, on the floor instead of on one of the poufs.

It’s intimate of him, in a way, to put himself at James’ feet, to lean his shoulder against James’ leg as he eats, and James puts one hand in his wet hair and smiles as he finishes off his pizza.

“Want me to brush my teeth,” he says, “or d’you want pizza sex?”

James laughs, shakes his head.

“I don’t mind pizza sex,” he says, and Steve nods. 

“Great to hear.”

He gets to his feet - he does it fluidly, despite being in a dressing gown - and then he holds out a hand to James. James could probably get off the pouf without assistance, but it’s another thrill to be pulled to his feet. He feels, when Steve does, that Steve could literally throw him. There’s so much strength in him that he could just pick James up and literally throw him across the room - Steve is the strongest person James has ever met. And yet, when he curls his hand around the back of James’ skull, James shivers with the gentleness of it.

Steve kisses him softly - does taste of pizza, James smiles into it - and slides his hand down James’ back.

“Now,” he says, “how about you and I try that new bed out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Date facts!**  
>  -James and Steve’s river cruise is based on real river cruise. However, rather than leaving from east Manhattan and pulling in at Chelsea Piers, the boat both leaves from and docks at Chelsea Piers in real life.  
> -Brooklyn Pier One park is real. I’m sure you knew that. Have a look at the pictures on google, though, it’s lovely, and I used real roads and parking lots, which you can find on maps. (In fact, most of the places local to Steve and James can be found on maps.)  
> -The High Line really does stay open until 10pm at that time of year, so James and Steve just manage to make it in time.
> 
>  **Waldorf Astoria facts!**  
>  The Waldorf Astoria in New York City is currently closed for renovations, which means I couldn’t accurately research everything for this installment. It was awful. I do have _some_ info, though.  
> -The original Waldorf Astoria really did stand where the Empire State Building stands now, and Steve really would have seen the current Waldorf Astoria (and 120 Wall Street) go up during his young-adulthood.  
> -The Waldorf Astoria’s Presidential Suite currently books for ten grand a night, but this is 2026 so I’m adjusting for inflation. Or, at least, I’m trying - this level of opulence is something I like to call ‘stupid rich’ so I’ve got no real idea.  
> -The Room Service menu for the WA NYC was not available, so I used the one from the Waldorf Orlando and bent the rules a little, but the floorplan of their room is accurate. I’ve got no idea what it’ll look like once the WA reopens but *shrug* eh. It’s fiction, I can probably get away with it, at least for seven years or so.


	3. Saturday November 14th

James wakes to the smell of amazing food - actually that’s probably what woke him - and hears crockery and cultery clinking in the next room. The sunlight’s pouring in through uncovered windows, and James is awash in a sea of fancy, white bedlinen. 

He stretches against the pillows, scrubs a hand over his face and stretches some more, and then he burrows a little deeper into the covers. They’re like marshmallows, like sponges - there’s a _pillow menu_ for Pete’s sake, and James has _four pillows_ from it.

He never wants to leave the bed.

The clinking dies down a little, and James can actually hear Steve _humming._ It’s a tune James thinks he’s heard before - an older one, one from Steve’s younger days. The humming grows louder, and then Steve comes in backwards, tray in hand, mindful of the door, and then turns around, glances at the bed and _beams._

“Ohh, mornin’, glory,” he says - he’s wearing a beard today, too. “Feelin’ hungry?”

James is feeling hungry enough to eat his own arm and he sits up in bed and stares because that is a _lot_ of food.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, like _duh_. “What’d you order?”

Steve runs his tongue over the tips of his upper teeth, face creased with delight.

“Everything,” he says. James snorts. “No but seriously,” Steve says, “pancakes, waffles, steak and eggs without the hollandaise, sides of sausage and bacon, a little fruit, cereal if you want it-”

James is already laughing.

“Oh my god,” he says, and Steve hands him a rectangular plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

“Thought you might like a little something to start you off.”

James laughs and takes one, and Steve sets them down to go and get, presumably, more.

“I got cream cheese and lox bagels, too, and they have like a bread and butter pudding thing,” his voice says from the other room, “plus,” he says as he comes back in with coffee, “breakfast tacos!”

“I really hope you didn’t have anything planned today,” James says. “I’m gonna be stuffed and immobile by lunch.”

Steve checks his watch. 

“You’ve got like two and a half hours until lunch,” he says. “Let’s get started!”

~

After breakfast, they shower together, because why wouldn’t they shower together? The shower here isn’t as big as Steve’s but they still fit, and Steve washes James because he says it’s his treat to do so.

“You’re turnin’ this up to eleven,” James says, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“When I was five years old, my mom had to buy a new tin tub,” he says, massaging suds through James’ hair, “when I needed a bath, she heated pots of water on the stove - it was never more than room temperature after the first five minutes, and I had asthma, pernicious anemia and a penchant for picking up pneumonia. My mother took the best care of me that she could and I couldn’t give her anything in my return - I was taught to pay it forward.”

James gapes at him.

“I believe you,” he says, “but that also has nothing to do with you being a sugardaddy. Like, I absolutely accept that’s why you like taking care of people, you’re like the most service top service top I’ve ever met-” Steve snorts “-but like, your mom is not why you bought me every food in existence for breakfast.”

“No,” Steve says. “I remember what it was like to go without food for-”

“Knock it off,” James laughs. 

Steve laughs too but he quiets after a moment or two.

“I just like bein’ nice to you. I got more money’n I need, I can make sure it goes to people it’ll benefit but…I own the conversion because my backpay made it possible. I don’t pay rent on the apartment because _Tony_. I can put my money where it’s needed _and_ have enough to treat you like a king.”

“I don’t need to be treated like a king,” James says.

“I know that,” Steve answers. “But I like to sometimes. And you like it sometimes, right?”

“Sometimes,” James says. “Just don’t make this an every day thing.”

“I promise,” Steve says. “And I also promise _this_ is true - if I had this much money way back when, I’d’a done this for everyone I cared about. Now the only person I need to worry about is you.”

“I believe that too,” James says.

“Your parents still paying a mortgage?”

“Oh my God!” James laughs. 

~

James blow dries his hair because he can and, when he comes back out, Steve’s dressed. In fact, Steve’s dressed in a black rollneck and a pair of charcoal pants. 

“We goin’ out?” James says, and Steve pauses, visibly. “What?” James says, and Steve looks James up and down, wets his lips.

“I was wondering,” Steve says, and then he holds both hands up like he’s going to have to stop James going on some type of tirade, “and you don’t have to say yes to this, it’s just- I just, uh.”

“Yeah?” James says. “What?”

“I would like,” he says, slowly, clearly trying to talk while gaging James’ reaction, “to draw you. _If_ you feel comfortable with that. I’d like you to sit for me.”

James can feel himself blush as he feels the smile he can’t tamp down.

“Are you serious?” he says.

Steve seems…well, he’s obviously noticed James has no intention of vetoing the suggestion.

“Yeah?” he says, his own smile broadening. “You’d be okay with that?”

“Like one of your French girls?” James says. “Are you nuts? Oh my God, nobody’s ever wanted to draw me.”

He’s laughing by the end of it, what a ridiculous notion. How will Steve even stand to look at him for that long.

“Are you serious?” James says, and Steve’s brow crinkles though his smile remains.

“I,” he says. “Yeah? Yeah, I’d love to.”

“Me too!” James says. “Me too, I’d love to. I’d love for you to, where do you want me?”

Steve’s eyebrows go up.

“It’s up to you, sweetheart,” he says. “You wanna be in the bed or on the couch in the living room or…?”

He’s feeling bold, and he’d never do this for anyone except Steve so it’s a bit of a surprise when he finds himself saying,

“How about _on_ the bed?”

Steve looks, if possible, more surprised.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure! I think I remember how to draw fabric.”

“Oh shit!” James says because, that’s right, tons of sheets - but he’s seen Steve’s portraits, Steve’s landscapes, and he knows Steve has the skill to render whatever he chooses, in multiple mediums. So he turns it into a joke instead. “I can lie on the floor! Or- Which is the least stripy couch?”

Steve’s eyes close as he huffs a laugh, and he goes over to the closet, gestures at the bed.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Get comfy, you’ll be there a while. You don’t need the bathroom, right?”

James shakes his head as he beams.

“I’m good!” he says. “Just anywhere I want?”

“Anywhere you want,” Steve says, and he has charcoals, a huge sketchbook, he has pencils, James thinks he sees watercolors too, maybe?

He doesn’t waste time - he gets on the bed and tries to get his head and shoulders nicely situated on the pillows.

Steve goes and sets his things down on an armchair in the corner and then _lifts the whole chair_ because supersoldier, right, and puts it down near to the end of the bed. Then he puts his materials on the end of the bed, sits down, and looks at James, assessing.

Then he nods and gets up again.

“Okay,” he says, and then he’s reaching out for James. “I’m gonna move you a little. Okay?”

James nods, bites his lip.

“Okay,” he says, feels his face screwing up he’s so happy.

Steve leans over him, looking just as happy, and tucks his hands up underneath James’ arms, lifting _him_ up a little. James laughs, and Steve’s smile broadens.

“Gimme your hands,” he says, and James lifts them so that Steve can move him. 

He gets one of James’ hands up on the pillow, arranges the other next to his hips on the bed.

He moves James’ hips a little next, and then one of his legs and then, when he’s gone back to the end of the bed twice to take a look at James, he comes back and leans over James, brings his face very close to James and opens his mouth to say-

“Mmh!” James says, remembering just in time not to move - Steve wasn’t here to talk, he was here to kiss which, okay! James is totally up for that!

“Don’t take offense, sweetheart,” he says, against James’ mouth, “but some things are better left to the imagination-” James feels Steve’s hand move, feels the fabric shift “-in that I want some pieces of you all to myself.”

“You’re gonna put me in an art gallery?” James says, coy, and Steve sucks James’ lower lip for a few seconds.

“I want to keep you all to myself,” he says eventually. “And if I keep your picture on my desk, I don’t want everyone in my office to see your dick.”

James chuckles. 

“Classy,” he says. “You want it classy. Right?”

“Call me old-fashioned,” Steve says.

“But…?” James answers. 

“No, just. Call me old-fashioned.”

James laughs outright this time.

“Alright,” Steve says, “lie still for a little while sweetheart, and then I’ll give you somethin’ to wriggle around about, huh?”

James nods, just slightly, not enough to to disturb the bedclothes or the pillows, and Steve’s eyes roam over him for a moment before he goes and sits down.

“Try and relax,” Steve tells him as he settles into the armchair. “Don’t worry if you fall asleep, I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”

“Forget sleep, I’m trying not to get an erection,” James answers, and Steve wheezes a laugh as he leans forward over his sketchpad. 

“Well don’t worry about it,” he says eventually. “I just won’t draw that bit ‘til later.”

James rolls his eyes, and Steve picks up the first of his materials and gets started.

~

James does, eventually, settle into a doze. He doesn’t do it intentionally because, for a long while, he watches the top of Steve’s head and the way his face looks when he glances up. James can see that he sees him completely differently - the affection in Steve’s eyes is replaced by a distance, a concentration. James can tell, he’s not a lover any longer, but a subject.

He’s not upset by it - it’s fascinating. There’s an intensity there that James hasn’t seen from him, and he wonders if this is what Steve looks like when he’s on a mission.

“You’re cute,” he says at one point, and all the warmth floods back into Steve’s expression, he smiles with all the affection he hasn’t been showing.

“I’m drawin’ somethin’ cuter,” he says, and James narrowly avoids not moving as he blushes - his first instinct is to cover his face with his arm.

“You’re awful,” he says.

“I’m the worst,” Steve confirms. 

Steve goes back to his work, and James smiles at the top of his head because he can’t help smiling. He feels like that a lot, lately. 

He only becomes aware that he’s slipped into half-sleep when Steve’s hand settles warm on his ankle. James comes fully awake with a small jolt, and Steve’s thumb moves against the ankle-bone.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Coffee break?”

“Mmh,” James says. “Can I move?”

Steve nods as he stands, replaces a big sheet of paper (James assumes it’s something to stop any smudging).

“Mhm,” he says. “I’m not done, but I’ve got what I need.”

“Awh,” James says, pulling the sheet back as he gets up off the bed and stretches. 

“Hey, I can show you what I have,” he says, and he flips the sketchbook open again and…

Wow.

Okay, _wow_ , how is…?

“Is,” Steve says. “Do you not…?”

“How did you,” James says.

He’s looking at a picture of himself - of course he is. And it’s him, it’s obviously him but…Steve’s been working in pencil and charcoal but somehow James looks flushed and halfway debauched, sleepily affectionate in a way that suggests he’s just been thoroughly ravaged. In a way that suggests he’s just been thoroughly ravaged, and not only enjoyed it but is almost through waiting patiently for round two.

And, what’s more, James in the drawing is not biting his lip. He’s not reaching out. But somehow what Steve’s drawn is someone who’s about to do both. Steve’s captured all the latent desire that buzzes under James’ skin, and all the adoration that flutters in his chest.

“You don’t like it?” Steve says.

“I love it, dumbass,” James says, and Steve huffs a breath.

“Oh.”

“I’m just…” he shakes his head. “Okay, first, I _love_ your style. I love the way you use light and shadow, I _love_ how much you’ve made out of black and white, that’s _nuts_ , but there’s…” He looks at Steve. “You’ve got charcoal on your nose,” he says, “you put so much of me in that picture, like, I don’t…” he smiles. “I don’t get how you did it. It’s like everything I ever think about you is in that picture.”

Steve goes a little pink over the bridge of his nose.

“Well, I,” he says, but he doesn’t say anything else, just presses his lips together, one corner of them turning up. “I’m happy you like it,” he says eventually.

“Are you kidding? I love it,” James says. “I love you. I wasn’t kidding about that charcoal.”

Steve chuckles.

“I’ll get it in a minute,” he says. “You know there’s everything I think about you in there too, right?”

James nods, reaches up and swipes at the charcoal with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I love it.”

Steve smiles, slides one charcoal-stained hand onto James’ waist.

“Why don’t you get dressed, sweetheart?” he says. “We got plans for today.”

“I hope those plans involve coming back and getting undressed at some point.”

“Oh absolutely,” Steve says. “At some point.”

James smiles.

“A’right,” he says. “Formal or informal?”

“Hmmm,” Steve says, taking a moment to pretend to think very hard about it. “Do you want to know what we’re doing?” 

James shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says. “I want it to be a surprise!” 

Steve chuckles.

“Okay,” he says. “Semi-formal. That way you can’t go wrong, right?”

~

James is no stranger to the buildings in New York. He works in one of the most prominent buildings in the city, lives near structures that have been immortalized in film and television for decades.

And yet, standing opposite 570 Lexington, the General Electric building, James is pretty sure he’s never been as mesmerized by any building so much in his life.

“God, it’s,” he says - he can barely breathe it’s so. “It’s gorgeous, it’s _beautiful_.”

“We’ll head across in a little while and see the lobby but I thought you might wanna see it from a reasonable distance first,” Steve says, adjusting the strap of his satchel where it hangs from his shoulder. He’s wearing a suit jacket now, and a long, dark wool coat, because they’re on the roof of the hotel, in the hotel’s roof garden. And, from it, they have a spectacular, unobstructed view of the the most beautiful skyscraper in New York City (okay, okay, it ties with the Chrysler). James has always wanted to see the top properly but you can’t see it from any except the highest floors of Stark Tower - even Steve’s floor isn’t high up enough to make it visible, and Steve might as well live in the clouds.

“Oh wow,” James says, smiling up at it. “Oh wow, it’s so gorgeous, I have _always_ wanted to take my own photo of it.”

“Instagram?” Steve says, and James laughs.

“Yeah, to start with,” he says. 

He takes photos and zooms in, takes more. He takes a selfie, waves a hand at Steve and takes a selfie of him and Steve (Steve squishes up close and grins), and then he zooms in on each individual aspect that he loves. He loves the waves, the figures, he loves _the whole design_ , and he shakes his head, puts his phone down and just stares at it.

Then he takes more photos. He gets a particularly good one when the sun comes out for like ten seconds, and it’s been dry the last day or two so the building isn’t discolored by the rain.

“This one!” James says, turns his phone to show Steve. “I’m putting this one up!”

Steve smiles.

“I’ve got my camera,” he says. “It’s just a bridge camera but if you want to-”

“Oh my God,” James says, “what’s the optical zoom?”

Steve smiles, goes for the buckle on his satchel.

“It’s sixty-three times,” he says, “which I know because it says so on the side.”

He pulls the camera from his bag and literally every time James thinks he couldn’t possibly love Steve any more than he does, Steve does things like this.

“How do you know me this well?” he says, and Steve smiles.

“Psychology later, photography now.”

“Saigon,” James says. “Shit.”

“Huh?” Steve says, and then, “ah, yeah, yeah, _Apocalypse Now,_ got it.”

James beams and then takes as many photographs as he can think to take. The copper spires turned green with age, the carefully constructed geometric waves, the crowned figure and the fleur-de-lys-esque stonework above the row of circular almost-portholes, above the faces set in stone.

“It’s beautiful,” James says, “it’s beautiful, it’s- it’s Gothic tracery!” He says, looks back at Steve. “It’s designed to look like _radio waves and electricity_ , how fuckin’ sick is that?” He looks at Steve again, and Steve has settled his hands in his pockets, is watching James with an unreasonable amount of fondness on his face. “It was designed in nineteen-thirty-whoa my God,” he looks at Steve, eyes wide, “it was designed in 1931, you were alive! You saw this!”

~

Steve can’t help smiling at James’ enthusiasm. Can’t help finding it enjoyable to look at. Here he is, standing on top of the Waldorf Astoria, staring up at the RCA Victor, with the man he loves. 

“I did,” he says softly. “I made a trip to see it a few years after it was done.”

He and Bucky. Got shoved near off the sidewalk and called a tourist for all their gawping, but Bucky brought him out to see it, saved up some money so Steve and his flat feet and bent spine wouldn’t have to walk the whole way. And then they realized they could barely see the thing from the ground. The pictures in the paper were beautiful, though, and Steve’ll never forget the hands over the clock, the shape of the archways. In a city full of hard work for no gain, the Victor had still managed to stand tall and elegant like a beacon of hope. 

"I've always wanted to see it from a good height," James says, and Steve checks his watch. 

"How'd you like to see it from the inside?"

James turns and looks at him, mouth open.

"What?" he says, and Steve taps his watch.

“We got like twenty minutes. Ready to take a walk?”

James hugs him, launches himself forward and flings his arms around Steve’s neck.

“Oh my God,” he says, presses his mouth to Steve’s throat in a move that’s both intimate and incredibly considerate given that the likelihood of someone recognizing their two tiny figures from any of the surrounding buildings is small but not nonexistent. “Oh my God, this is amazing, thank you _so_ much-”

Steve laughs, settles his hands at the small of James’ back.

“I meant it though,” he says. “We gotta get moving, we got an appointment.”

They hustle downstairs, and then down the street together, and they get into the building for their three p.m. appointment to find someone Steve already knows waiting to meet them. Close-cropped hair with a couple of red streaks, and a set of names across their knuckles in dark blue ink, Steve met them during some of the wandering around art galleries he did not long after he was first reanimated. They were both hanging around a particular gallery (Steve because it was what he was wont to do, and Sandy because they had a free afternoon a half-day), and the two of them got talking while they were looking at a nouveau painting. It’s years and years ago now, but Sandy’s one of the first people outside SHIELD’s strict regime of staff who took Steve’s education about queerness-in-society in hand. 

“James,” Steve says, “this is Sandy, they/them.”

“Nice to meet you,” James says, shaking their hand. “I’m James, he/him.”

Sandy grins.

“Nice to meet you too,” they say. “You guys ready to take a look at the architecture?”

“I mean,” James says, and then he looks up. “ _Look_ at this place.”

“I know!” Sandy answers. “It’s fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Sandy moves off, and Steve and James follow.

“Can I,” James says, “am I allowed to take pictures?”

Sandy throws a grin over their shoulder.

“Make sure you get my best side,” they answer, and James laughs.

Sandy’s worked on reception in the building for almost five years now, and they and their partner and Steve had a coffee to celebrate when they got the job. This whole thing has been cleared with management and with security - Commander Steven Rogers plus assistant - and Sandy, Steve’s sure, suspects there’s a little more to it. If he doesn’t confirm, though, Sandy won’t ask - they’ve always been good that way.

Sandy doesn’t need to talk James through the history of the building. In fact, James talks them and Steve through it instead, and then wanders off down the long corridor with its vaulted ceilings and elevator banks. He gets right up against one wall to photograph the way the light plays off the stone, kneels on the floor in front of the gorgeous metalwork all the way down the other end to look up at it. He photographs the clock, the lights, the sconces, the elevator buttons and the glass high above the main entrance.

“I could live here,” James says, shaking his head. “It’s so beautiful, I could just lie in the middle of the floor and die happy.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Steve says, and he catches the minute turn of Sandy’s head before they think better of it.

“You’d have to find somebody else to answer your emails,” James says, quick off the mark even if it’s not quite enough to yank Steve’s leg back from where he’s stuck his foot in it. “This place is amazing.”

“It gets better on top,” Sandy says, and Steve can _see_ them hold their tongue a moment later.

He can also see James holding his, too.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “ _That’s what_ he _said._ Are we happy now? Shall we get in an elevator?”

James kind of snorfles a laugh, and Sandy straight up giggles, and then they make their way to the nearest elevator and get inside.

~

If there’s one thing Steve should have realized standing outside on the cold rooftop of the Waldorf Astoria, it’s that standing on top of 570 Lex was going to be _fucking freezing,_ but his excuse is he was distracted by James. That’s reasonable, right?

James has barely said a word to either of them since they made it onto the roof, although he did have to scrub one hand across his eyes at one point, which Steve pretended not to notice. Steve isn’t afraid of heights although he’s not too comfortable with them (he’s gotten better since living in the tower, sure, but he’s still not too comfortable - ziplining down a mountain or flying a giant bomber plane, amongst other events, will do that to a guy), but he is anxious about how high up they are.

He doesn’t think for a moment that James will climb one of the huge retaining walls and leap to his death, or scale the stonework when Steve isn’t looking and then slip and fall to his death, or lean against a loose window or crumbling statue and overbalance and plummet to his death-

Steve puts a hand on the inner wall and breathes. Intrusive thoughts suck but the stone is cold and Sandy’s talking and James is taking pictures, there are clouds, and the city’s sparkling in the intermittent sunlight, he’s okay.

James is taking pictures of _everything._ Multiple times. Up and through and along things, close and further away - he stays well away from the edge although there’s no chance of an accidental fall, and then he turns the lens outward, to the thick green-gray swathe of the east river, and the stone-colored sprawl of Hunter’s Point beyond. 

Steve takes a look too - even surrounded by the concrete forest of Midtown you can see a long way from up here.

When he looks back at James, James has the camera pointed straight at him, and is lowering it with a sheepish grin.

“Hi,” he says.

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Ah-huh,” he says. “Do you want one?”

James nods, lifts the strap over his head. 

“Sure,” he says.

And so Steve takes over with the camera while James walks around and just looks at the things. It’s nice, Steve thinks, that this is someone who appreciates actually looking at things, and not just going to see it for a good photograph, or for the kudos of having been.

The round windows are almost as tall as James is, the statues towering next to him. He fits his hands in the gaps between the waves, and stares up at the scrollwork.

“I love you,” James says to the building.

Steve laughs.

***

They leave Sandy and the RCA Victor behind shortly after four-forty-five. It’s dark by then, and James has the camera again, so he’s taken plenty of photos of the building’s crown against the backdrop of night. He also took one of Steve and Sandy, and then Sandy took one of him and Steve, and then Steve took one of him and Sandy.

“You better send me at least one of those,” Sandy says, and Steve smiles at them.

“Thanks for this,” he says. 

“Not a problem,” Sandy answers, and then he and James step back out onto the street.

James takes photos of the entrance, of the windows, of the entrance to the subway - “it looks like something out of Bugsy Malone!” - and then he turns to Steve.

“Where next, boss?” he says, and Steve, already reaching out to close his hand around James’ elbow, hesitates.

It’s not fair of him to be disappointed. James’ decision not to come out is practical, forward-thinking, and is something Steve suggested. It’s something he will need to consider carefully at multiple points in the future and it’s a smart way to do things, especially given that James is an unknown and Steve is very much not.

He draws his hand back and turns to look down the street.

“Dinner and a movie?” he says, and James laughs.

“Yeah?” he says. “Sounds good to me, where’re we headed?”

Steve glances down the street again.

~

Steve seems off, as in, antsy, and James is about to ask what’s wrong when Steve’s expression clears.

“Ah,” he says, and then heads are turning around them and James turns to look too.

It’s Dana, in the limo.

“Oh God,” James chuckles, but Steve holds up a hand as she pulls up, and it’s _he_ who opens the door for James.

James gets in, keeps his head low given the way there are people on the sidewalk looking - _they_ must be tourists, or Tony Stark fans, because the only way people stop and look in New York is if they’re from somewhere that doesn’t get celebrities, or if they really, really wanna see Iron Man - and Steve doesn’t turn his head at all as he follows James into the car. 

Dana already knows where they’re headed, evidently, and pulls out into traffic.

James looks at Steve and grins.

“What’re we gonna go see?” he says. “There’s that one about those two guys in the Roosevelt administration-”

“I mean as interesting as I’m sure you might find that-” which is hilarious because one of the secretly-gay dudes in that movie is played by the guy who plays Lucius in ~~Super~~ **human** so ‘interesting’ is understatement of the century “-this is something you’ve seen before.”

James feels his eyebrows climb but smiles too.

“Oh?” he says, but then he frowns. “I haven’t been to the movies in ages.”

Steve’s smile is broad, his eyes half-closed. He just bobs his eyebrows, the dork.

“Dinner first or movie first?” James says. 

It’s only around five in the evening but he’s good at being hungry, and he knows Steve’s a world class act.

Steve’s smile only broadens, enough that he can run the tip of his tongue over the points of his upper teeth. 

“Ugh, you tease,” James laughs, and Steve reaches out and hauls him close, kisses him to within an inch of his life.

“Know how pretty you are when you’re happy?” he says when they part, and James can’t help it, doesn’t even think about it.

He just looks at the expression on Steve’s face and says,

“Yeah.”

~

The movie theater is, it turns out, in Brooklyn, and Dana drops them at the front door. There aren’t as many people around, so they don’t get as many stares as they did on Lex, and it’s darker inside than James is expecting. 

Dana drives off, and Steve…Steve knocks on the door? 

Someone in a uniform - black pants, red vest, white shirt - comes and opens the door.

“Good evening!” she says as they cross the threshold, and she locks the door behind them too. “Welcome to the Nitehawk.”

James looks at her, and then at Steve, and he smiles.

“Come on,” he says. 

“What time’s it start?” James says, and Steve laughs softly.

“When we’re ready,” he says. “I rented the place.”

“You,” James says. “Of course you did.”

Steve falters.

“Should,” he says. “Should I not have?”

James cocks his head.

“I can stand to be in with everyone else,” he says. “I mean this is lovely, I love it but…you don’t have to-”

“Oh no, no!” Steve says, shaking his head. “No, renting the place out is something they do! I didn’t just like…have a quiet word with the manager, no, honey, they started renting the whole place out in twenty…in twenty-one?” He turns to look at the lady. Her name-badge says ‘Anna.’

“Yep,” she says. “You two okay with the set menu?”

“Menu?” James says, and he feels his eyes go wide. “Menu?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Dine-in theater!”

“We serve food that’s relevant to the production,” she says. “So tonight’s menu for you is a choice of burgers - bacon, bacon/cheese, cheese, you can have veggie beef or chicken, sweet potato fries or fries, et cetera, I’ll show you the leaflet, and you’ve got pirozhky for dessert with bottomless American Dreams and White Russians.”

What the hell are they watching, a Bond movie?

James looks at the menu and picks bacon double cheese - so does Steve. Steve also asks for both types of fries, each covered in cheese and bacon, and then James has to go to the bathroom. When he comes back, Anna takes them through to the screen room they’ll be sitting in, and Steve picks middle center to sit, with James right next to him. Their food shows up not five minutes later (along with a glass of water and popcorn each, because James will take any special occasion as an excuse to eat what he likes, and Steve doesn’t need an excuse), and then the lights go down. 

James is still pondering the idea that the food and the production are supposed to be linked when he hears the speakers kick on, and then something about ‘American Dreams’ and ‘White Russians’ clicks in his minds. They’re just cocktails, but pirozhky are Russian, and Burgers couldn’t be more American, and James gets it just as the unmistakable rasp of Shirley Manson’s voice sings,

_“The World’s about to-”_

“Holy shit,” James says, Steve has rented an entire movie theater just so James can watch ~~Super~~ **human** on a big screen. “Holy shit!”

Steve’s grin, in the flickering near-darkness of the movie theater, is smugger than James thinks he’s ever seen it.

“You smooth bastard,” James says, and Steve just laughs.

~

Steve’s an even smoother bastard because James has been distracted since Friday lunchtime, and so he didn’t notice the new trailer for season three dropped. He sees it for the first time after they watch the season two finale.

~

Steve’s a little subdued after dinner because, hello, this is a sci-fi series based basically on his life, making a whole host of assumptions about Bucky Barnes. Plus it was five back-to-back episodes, which is like. Almost four hours.

“You,” James says, as an awful thought occurs to him, “you did know that’s how the season ends, right?” he says, and Steve smiles a little ruefully.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was looking it up to find out if they could play it for you, and I caught some of synopses, so I read up on the Internet, watched a couple videos. Don’t worry.”

James shakes his head, leans over and slides his hand into Steve’s hair. 

“I don’t need you to love the stuff I love,” James says. “I don’t need you to sit through shit you don’t wanna watch to prove you love me.”

“Cool,” Steve says. “Next time we’ll watch the Wizard of Oz.”

James laughs a little.

“You sure you’re okay?” he says as he draws back again.

Steve nods.

“I promise,” he says. “To be quite honest, it’s nice to see. I’m never gonna be upset people made a show gayer, you know?”

James nods.

“Yeah, actually,” he says. “I know what you mean.”

***

Dana comes for them in the car to take them from the movie theater - James tries not to think about the tip there either - and from there they head back to the hotel.

“You want anything from room service?” Steve says as he locks the door behind them.

James shakes his head and laughs, wanders into the living room, and then goes for his shirt.

“After today?” he says. “Lemme get you a little something first.”

Steve follows him in, looks for a moment as though he might object, but then James gets the coat off his shoulders and gets the last of his shirt buttons open, and then suddenly Steve’s gaze, which was tracking the movement of his hands, flicks back up to James’ eyes. 

“Twist my arm,” he says, his voice maybe half an octave lower than it was when he asked about room service.

James shakes his head, takes two steps backwards and watches Steve visibly perk up, head cocking. He runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Gotta catch me first,” he says and, after a moment of pleased surprise, there’s a change. 

Steve barely moves, is the thing. The change about him is very subtle, but it’s unmissable to James. Maybe it’s his eyes, or the way he breathes - it’s _something_. Maybe Steve’s head has come down, maybe there’s a predatory edge to his smile, maybe he plants his feet and bends his body, ready to move, but he does it without visibly shifting at all. And then, with a voice that sounds the way velvet feels, he says,

“Ready or not.”

James laughs.

Then he _bolts._

They don’t even make it to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nitehawk does serve production-themed food along with your movie! And Shirley Manson is the lead singer of Garbage, who sang the theme for “The World Is Not Enough.” If you can imagine the theme tune for Avengers Earth’s Mightiest Heroes sung by Garbage instead of Bad City, you’ll have some idea of how I imagine the theme tune for ~~Super~~ **human**.


	4. Sunday November  15th

James wakes because something is messing with his feet and, for a minute, he thinks it’s Matilda, until he squints in the brightness of the bedroom and cracks his eyes open that the room reorients himself around him and becomes the Signature Suite of the Waldorf Astoria which makes no sense when you consider that James is awake because something is messing with his feet—

Reflex makes him gasp, twist, and he yoinks his feet up towards his butt as his head comes up so he can see what’s trying to eat him toes-first, and he finds Steve - it’s _Steve_ \- smiling at him from, he must be kneeling on the floor at the end of the bed because his head is level with the mattress and he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. 

James says,

 _“Wiugh?”_ in a voice that’s too high and not what he meant but he thought something was eating his feet so it’s not exactly, like—

Steve actually says ‘hee hee’ when he giggles, and James pouts.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says. “Happy anniversary!”

“Hmyaddlersiry,” James answers, and then he yawns, covers his mouth, flops back into the mattress.

The mattress which is soft and warm and, it dips down where Steve is, dips further, and James covers his face with a pillow to hide his smile.

“Mmm!” Steve says, as though he’s spotted a particularly nice chocolate chip cookie amongst oatmeal raisin disappointments, and he pulls the covers back, getting his hands inside. “Loooook, all for mee-” James laughs and Steve - fully dressed apparently - gets into the sheets, up under the bedclothes, starts getting his mouth on James’s hip, stomach, chest, “aha!” throat, and then his head pokes out the top of she sheet, which James knows because he moves the pillow as Steve gets over him under the bedclothes. “Look what I found,” he says.

“You’re chipper,” James says.

“I’m _chipper?_ ” Steve says, and then, a little more quietly. “Chipper?”

James laughs softly, it bubbles up out of him, and he grabs Steve’s head in both hands.

“Chipper’s what I am?” 

“Mm, happy anniversary,” James says.

“Happy anniversary,” Steve says again, nodding. 

“You’re wearing all clothes,” James says, and Steve huffs a laugh through his nose.

“What a crying shame,” he says. “Now you, however…”

“You go to church?” James asks, and Steve looks so pleased that the back of James’ head is starting to ache from smiling.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You still a little worn out?”

“Whose fault is _sat?”_ James says, and Steve gets to kissing his throat again, his jaw, across his collarbone to his shoulder.

“You’re right, I take full responsibility,” Steve says. “How’s your shoulders?” 

“Pretty good,” James says. “How about your knees?”

“Eh, rugburn,” Steve answers. “It’s already healed.”

James turns his head and looks at the clock.

“What’s the plan today?” he says, and Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. 

“Well eventually we’re going out for a treat, and then we’re going way further out for a better treat, and then we’re coming all the way back for a lovely anniversary meal.”

“What’re we having?” James asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“Churros in our pajamas?” he says and then, serious, “anything you want.”

James raises an eyebrow.

“And what time are these treats?” he says. 

“Well the goin’-out-treats are later,” Steve says. “Way later. Stayin’-in-treat’s now, though.”

“Ooh, staying in?” James says, and Steve nods.

“Mhm,” he says, “yeah, mostly it’s for me but some of it’s for you too.”

“Oh?” James says, and he raises one eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he pushes up onto his hands, like a press-up over James, tucks his legs up until he’s kneeling. “Condoms?”

And then there James is, flat on his back and buck naked, in a huge, fluffy bed, in the most expensive hotel room he’s ever been in, with Steve kneeling right there in a _suit_ , in a nest of bedclothes. It gets him hard, he’s not even embarrassed. 

“No,” James says, and then tries to make the next thing he says as seductive as he can. “You gonna fuck me?”

“You’d like that, huh?” Steve says, tugging his jacket off his shoulders. He throws it, without taking his eyes off James, starts on his tie next. “Next time I’m tyin’ your wrists,” he says, and then starts on his shirt, tags jingling as it comes open, as he throws it aside.

He’s - James’ mouth waters - he’s shaved, aside from that pretty trail, and he towers over James like this, broad shoulders, chiseled muscle, his eyes dark and his smile heated already. 

The scars on his torso are almost invisible, Steve’s nipple is back to its normal color, and James is just about to reach out and touch when Steve shakes his head.

Then he pushes up again and gets up so he’s _standing on the bed_ , goes for his fly. 

When he shoves his suit pants down, the first thing James notices is that he’s not wearing underwear. Then he realizes that Steve’s feet are bare. Steve smells like soap, too - he’s not fresh back from being out, he’s fresh out of the shower and redressed, and now he’s _beautifully naked_ and—

“Huh?” James says, already mesmerized by the sight of him, but then Steve’s kicking dark fabric aside, kneeling back down on the bed.

How has he managed this without falling over?

“Hmm, look at this thing,” Steve says, wraps his fingers around James’ dick and strokes twice.

And the thing is, the thing is, James’ eyes flutter shut because it feels good, his mouth opens and his brow furrows but Steve shifts, lets go of James’ cock and moves and, when James gets the wherewithal to look, he finds that Steve’s kneeling astride his hips with a kind of hunger in his expression that James has been seeing for weeks.

“I know you said I could do this for your birthday but I’m not waiting that long. Guess what my hip’s well enough to do,” he says, and then he reaches back and slicks James’ cock with a fistful of lube, _oh wow, yes, yes please,_ lines himself up, and sinks down. “Oh, _fuck_ , yeah,” he breathes, his head going back as he groans. 

James is barely _awake_ at this juncture, let alone able to process Hotel Steve Naked Sex into any semblance of an intelligent series of events past the sudden wave of _yes, yes!_ There’s part of him still wondering where the cat is when every nerve he’s got lights up, and the pleasure in his dick flares so strong he thinks he might actually be glowing. His hands come up but, though he’s trying to grab for Steve, his hands don’t find him, slapping about instead, and his back is arched so far he’s looking at the top of the headboard.

A moment later, he groans a noise so loud it hurts his throat, and then Steve’s hands, big and warm, are closing around his wrists, bringing James’ palms down onto his thighs.

Steve laughs as the world tips back enough that James can see him - and well he might. James can barely speak, his ears ringing, his toes tingling.

“Tight is it?” Steve says and tight’s an understatement - prepped and on his bed in Brooklyn, Steve was tight. 

Now James is seeing _stars._

Steve lets go of James’ hands once they’re on his legs, and chooses to sweep his palms up James’ stomach instead, onto his chest, leaning forward as he does to bring his face down to James’, and James can’t _breathe_ he’s squeezed so tight, he gasps into Steve’s mouth when Steve kisses him, shakes on the mattress when Steve kisses his throat and face. 

“Oh,” he says, “ohhh, ohh,” and Steve strokes James’ cheek with his fingertips, clenches down, and James hears his own moan catch in his throat, hears his lungs struggle for breath the next time he manages to gasp.

“Y’alright, honey?” Steve murmurs, and James manages to tilt his chin up and kiss Steve back, manages to lift his legs just a little so that Steve’s sitting more in the cradle of his hips, manages to lift his hands up enough to get his arms around Steve’s torso.

Steve looks very pleased with himself and James doesn’t have the ability to talk really so he just tilts his head up again, asking for the kiss he can’t use words for.

Steve doesn’t let up after that - he seals his mouth over James’ and just kisses him and kisses him. James actually bites his lip not two minutes later when Steve starts to move, and he digs his fingernails into the backs of Steve’s shoulders, hangs on pathetically while Steve does life-changing things with his hips instead. 

“Steve,” James says against Steve’s mouth, _“Steve-”_

Steve laughs, sits up again, James is going to _pass out_ and lifts himself off James’ dick, lets it rub up between his cheeks for a few moments before he’s fishing around for something.

Lube, it’s lube, he finds it a moment later and gets a ton in his palm, reaches back and just strokes - wraps his fingers around it and twists his wrist so that James finds his limbs twitching, feels his lungs shivering.

“I was asleep,” he says, “wasn’t I?”

By which he means, _am I dreaming,_ and Steve smiles.

“You’re awake now,” he says, and kneels up, slides the head of James’ cock down between his cheeks until he can sink down over it again, but this time he stays where he is, sitting up and looking down. “Y’okay?”

“God, you’re gorgeous,” James says, and Steve rolls his eyes, pink over his nose - seriously? He’s got James’ dick in his ass but give him a compliment and it’s then that he blushes.

“Ain’t just me, kid,” he says, “look at you.”

James shakes his head.

“How are you so,” he gasps, and the words are an effort to get out, his mouth is having trouble staying shut long enough to form the consonants. 

“How are me so?” Steve says. “How are _you_ so, _look_ at you, everything about you’s made for me.”

He reaches out, cups James’ cheek in his hand, strokes his thumb over James’ lips.

“This was made for me,” he says, his hand slides down to James’ chest, settles on his sternum, “this was made for me,” he arches his back and leans forward, rocks on James’ cock, “this was made for me.”

James looks at Steve, from his head to his knees, shakes his head.

“You-” he says, the next gasp cutting him off, but Steve shakes his head too.

“Everybody knows what I was made for,” he says, and he kneels up over James, _“why I_ was made, but you? You were made for _me_.”

“Ohn, Steve,” James says, his hands are flailing, and Steve catches one, laces their fingers. 

“I swear, best I can, I’ll do anything for you.”

“I love you,” James says, squeezes his eyes shut, “I love you.”

“Mhm, I love you too,” Steve answers, smiles, and then he lifts himself up and starts to ride James proper, and he’s so gorgeous, he’s so beautiful, James can barely think past what a work of art he looks like. 

His pecs and his abs and that gorgeous, beautiful, sweet curve his dick makes where it stands, it’s so-

“This,” James gasps, lifts his other brushes his fingers against it, and Steve smiles, brings his wet hand around and makes a fist around it, tight.

“Yeah?” he says, and James nods, scrabbles at Steve’s fingers. 

Steve gets it, sees how uncoordinated James is, and lets go of his dick long enough to guide James’ hand to it, smiling.

“Whassamatter, baby?” he says, his voice low, his eyes half-closed.

He moves slowly, languidly, rides James like he’s got all the time in the world to do so, and James can barely wrap his head around it, this gorgeous, towering, giant of a man, broad shoulders and tiny waist and his _dick_ -

“How’d your dick get so pretty?” James says, and doesn’t even care when he realizes what he’s said.

Steve just smiles, just runs his tongue over his teeth and then covers James’ hand on his dick with his own so they’re both bringing him off and, okay, James ought to have known this, James ought to be expecting it having spent some time watching Steve move, watching Steve fuck, watching Steve run and swim and spar and stretch, he should know and shouldn’t be surprised but Steve starts rolling his hips then, starts rolling his whole body into each thrust, tags clattering, and there’s sweat on his skin and he looks like a dream, he doesn’t look real, he looks like every fantasy James has ever had.

“Yours feels pretty fuckin’ good, honey, next time I’ll face your feet’n you can watch it in me,” he says, and James can’t help the groan he gives, how can Steve just _say_ things like that?

He bites his lip, his head tilts back a little, but he doesn’t let up, keeps right on going, one hand in James’ on his knee, the other on his dick with James’ other hand, shoulders back, his dick is so pretty, it’s so pretty, James wants to see it, Steve lets him let go to look at it.

It gets thicker in the middle just a little, the thick ridge of the urethra on the underside, the head is red and wet, Steve’s balls rest against James’ stomach-

“God,” James says. “Look at it, it, curve, mine just-”

Steve chuckles, guides their hands back.

“Yeah, yours,” he says, smile slipping as his mouth drops open instead, eyes fluttering closed as he bobs a little faster on it, “uhn, yours is _just_ fuckin’ right, babe.”

He slows down again, slows right down and clenches hard as he sinks down the next couple of times, and James shakes his head on the pillow.

“Mmmh,” he says, it sounds like a whine even to his own ears, “please, I’m,” he can’t keep his eyes open, “God, can you _please_ speed up?”

Steve laughs for real this time, and he does as he’s asked - tenses his legs to re-situate himself, sticks his ass out and then smiles, feral. And then yeah, okay, oh- 

“ _Fuck,”_ James says, “ohn _fuck, fuck,_ ” he makes his fingers tight too because he wants Steve to come like this, wants Steve to ride him until he comes all over James’ chest, and he’s not going to last long enough for Steve to do it if something doesn’t change. 

“Wanna me to come on it?” Steve says, and James nods, chews halfway through his lower lip trying to hold back.

His whole body’s tense, his shoulders feel rigid, and part of him’s aware that he’s trying to stave off orgasm by desperately attempting to separate his head and torso from the rest of his body.

“Ohhh, God,” he groans, because no, he’s not going to manage, he’s going to be done _very_ very soon.

Steve doubles down, strokes his dick so fast James has to let go to make it easier ‘cause he’s just gettin’ in the way but then, then, Steve’s wincing, his shoulders are hunching, his rhythm gets faster, the force of it gets stronger and yeah, James could see how he might break a pelvis if he weren’t paying attention.

“Yeah,” he says, a breath, “yeah, yeah, that’s it, get off,” and then Steve goes rigid and lets go and stops moving and says,

 _“Huh?”_ looking halfway to terrified and, oh nono-

“No, I mean!” James gasps, but it’s too late, “I mean come!”

It’s too late - Steve _already is_ , without a hand on himself, without any movement, shocked into inaction by James’ bad turn of phrase-

“Oh my God!” James says, grabs his own head with both hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I meant get-off like come, like, like have an orgasm, oh my God, Steve- ”

Steve’s laughing. Steve’s whole face is screwed up and his whole body is hunched over and his cock is drooling and he’s laughing. James can hear the wheeze of it, the click in the back of his throat as he laughs so hard and so fast that he doesn’t make a sound.

By the time he gulps enough breath to laugh audibly, it’s a keen, laughter so hard and unexpected he can barely contain himself.

“Morning of our anniversary,” he says, out of breath, and James covers his face with his hands, “first time I ride you, and you ruin my orgasm. Oh, kid.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” James says, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Here, c’mere,” Steve chuckles, lifts one of James’ hands away and then the other.

He gets up off James’ cock a moment later, shifts forward to lean down, pressing his dick and his balls against James’ stomach as he angles for a kiss.

“You’re a fuckin’ riot, kid, I adore you,” he says, and then he sits up straight again.

James shakes his head, looks up at him. Steve’s smiling - it’s not sarcasm.

“I’m so sorry,” James says, and Steve smiles, shakes his head.

“S’just an orgasm,” he says, and then wets his lips, looks at James’ chest, his stomach, his mouth. “Ain’t like I can’t have another.”

“I,” James says, “I don’t think I can-”

“Oh, you can,” Steve says. “For starters, you’re gonna lie there while I get most of the way, and I’ll hop on when I’m good an’ close, how about that?”

James bites his lip, he nods, yeah, he can do that. 

Steve beams.

“Good,” he says, wraps his fingers around his dick again. “You just stay hard ‘til I need you,” and that, that does things to James he didn’t know he liked, didn’t know he wanted.

“Yessir,” he says.

~

Steve does exactly what he said he would - jerks his dick until he’s close, squeezing the shaft of it as he sinks back down onto James’ after a handful of lube before he starts moving in earnest, tags clattering again, that gorgeous, rolling ride he takes, his whole body undulating even though his head stays almost still, following every movement James can’t help making.

James’ brain thinks a multitude of things that wind up as _I bet he’d look as amazing on a horse as he does riding me_ and he laughs, but it comes out shaky and uncoordinated and Steve says,

“Yeah,” glances at James for confirmation, and James gives him the _yeah, abso-fucking-lutely_ eyes, “ohn yeah, yeah,” but he shakes his head, watches the way James is breathing, frowns. “Gotta,” he says gasping, “close your mouth, kid, or I’m-” he manages.

James opens wide and sticks his tongue out flat, an invitation. 

Steve says, “ _oh_ ,” and lasts about ten seconds after that, and James is so hot on his heels there might as well be no difference at all.

 _Save a horse,_ James’ brain says, and then it’s two minutes before he can explain why he’s laughing.

***

After breakfast in bed, when James’ legs have decided they might consider working again, Steve busies himself rubbing James’ feet. It’s. Really weird, kinda? But also really nice - Steve’s got big, warm hands and when he pushes the pads of his fingers in, they don’t tickle. James isn’t overly ticklish, but he is a little, and he suspects he’d put a dampener on their anniversary celebrations if he kicked Steve in the face.

“I love you,” he says, and Steve looks up at him, smiles, keeps up the movement of his hands.

“I love you too, honey,” he says. “We don’t gotta leave until like two this afternoon, either, so you can sleep if you want.”

“Nah-ah,” James answers, retracting one foot. “I haven’t done a damn thing for you this weekend-”

“Blatantly untrue, you did two things for me this morning-”

“I did one thing and ruined another,” James says, “but I mean, you’ve been treating me all weekend, and I haven’t done anything for you.”

Steve cocks his head.

“You,” he says, and then, “I don’t need anything.”

“Neither do I!” James says. “And yet here we are.”

Steve frowns.

“I’ve got the money to do nice things,” he says. “I know you said you won’t want it all the time, that’s fine, but-”

“Stop, stop,” James says, holding up a hand. “I was trying to, no, it’s okay,” Steve looks confused and a little sad, “no, I was trying to segue into something.”

Steve blinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, uh, you wanna start again? Blah blah two, so you can sleep if you want.”

This time it’s James who blinks, and then he rolls his eyes, shakes his head.

“I don’t have much I can give or offer _as far-!_ ” he says, holding up a hand as Steve opens his mouth to protest. Steve closes his mouth, makes a very small ‘lock it up and throw away the key’ motion. “As far as expensive gifts,” he continues. “But I take care of myself pretty well, and I learned to shave you already, I was thinking I could maybe give you a manicure.”

Wow, that sounds dumb out loud.

“A manicure?” Steve says and oh no, it sounds dumber now he’s hearing it from someone else.

“Uhhh,” he says, dropping Steve’s gaze, looking down, away, “uh, yeah, no I…I hear how stupid that is, no problem.”

“James,” Steve says, like an admonishment. “That’s not what I meant at all, sweetheart, I just meant I…” he shakes his head. Then he looks at his fingernails. “I mean. What do you. What does that mean?”

James risks a glance up at Steve from under his eyebrows.

“No, I mean, I know what a _manicure_ is but do I- Do I need- What does it- What would you-” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, breathes out very slowly. Then he reaches out and shakes hands with James. “Hi, I’m Steve Rogers.” James chuckles. “What would you be doin’ to me if I said yes?” 

James searches his face. Steve doesn’t seem put off. 

“Uh just,” he says. “You know. Clean, file, moisturize. Maybe topcoat if I do your cuticles.”

He looks at his nails again.

“So no baby blue with polka dots?”

“Aw, and here I was gonna suggest I do a whole makeover,” James answers, and Steve gives him a look.

“Maybe save that for Pride,” he says. “And you’ve got all the stuff for that here?”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I take care of mine so I’ve got a travel kit. You, I mean, yours probably don’t need it actually but…”

“Yeah,” Steve says, examining his fingernails again. “It’d be nice though. Where d’you want me?”

James looks around, thinks for a minute. There’s a table in the living room.

“Living room,” he says. “You go on, I’ll get dressed.”

Steve raises one eyebrow.

“I think maybe I’ll get dressed too,” he says. “I mean, I’m sure we’re not the first people to have sex in this hotel room, but I think I might want somethin’ between my bare ass and the couch.”

“You didn’t on Friday,” James points out, and Steve ripples his fingertips up the sole of James’ foot to make him yelp before he lets go.

“Wiseacre,” he says. But his smile is wry and his eyes are warm.

“I was thinking hot pink with lime green stars,” James retaliates.

Steve blinks in a way that suggests even the idea is too much for his eyes. 

“Ugh, God,” he mutters, and James laughs.

~

Manicure is a bit of an overstatement. 

He sets his ‘tools’ out on the table - his kit, that he got for his birthday this year from his mom (which is one of those fancy twenty-piece things with scrapers and pushers and files and clippers, and James only uses about three of the tools but the whole thing looks lovely in its case), a couple of long, curved, professional files he bought from a company after burning through about forty of their videos on YouTube one afternoon when he was down with a cold, a small buffer block that fits into his toiletries bag, and a few little bottles.

He also puts a bowl of water down and tells Steve to soak his cuticles.

Steve smiles, bemused,but does as he’s asked - it’s a cereal bowl they didn’t use at breakfast.

“It’s not like,” James says, “I mean, I’m not a professional, you know? It’s not going to be…”

Steve is still looking at him like he’s never seen anything more adorable.

“This is just what I do on mine,” James says. “If I’ve got time.”

Steve nods.

It won’t take long - Steve’s fingernails, like James’, are short because it’s a) easier to work if you’ve got short nails and b) less dangerous to finger somebody if you’ve got short nails - but Steve looks happy to let James do it, which is the important thing.

~

“You know,” Steve says as James grabs a towel, “Tony has his nails done.”

“Yeah?” James says, and he takes Steve’s hand out of the water. 

He takes Steve’s hand in his, palm to palm, and then pats his skin dry with the towel. Steve knows he should be looking down if he wants to learn anything but he’s not really concerned about the learning process. James is right - he doesn’t need this.

“Yeah, for red carpets. Never lasts long though.” Actually, though, it occurs to him, perhaps he’ll want to do this for James at some point. “So what are you doing first?”

“Cuticles,” James says, rubs a little of something on them. Lotion or something. “I’ll push ‘em back and trim ‘em in a minute.”

Steve nods, watches James work the stuff into his nail beds with gentle fingertips. Then he looks at James. James is concentrating, which is adorable, and Steve just smiles at him because he can’t help smiling at him. James really works the stuff in, as well, goes and goes, and the way he cradles Steve’s hand suggests to Steve that maybe he doesn’t need to, which is even nicer.

When he’s decided Steve’s cuticles are whatever enough-

“What’s this doing?” 

“Softening,” James says.

When he’s decided Steve’s cuticles are soft enough, James picks up the small shovel-shaped tool and, nail by nail, sets the flat edge down and…scrapes. Like a wallpaper scraper.

“What’s this for?” Steve says.

“Your cuticles are at the bottom of the nail,” he says. “They can get dry and hard but yours probably won’t. The stuff that sticks to your nails, though? It’s like one cell thick or something, and it’s made of cells that are sticky. It’s like tape to keep your nail in your finger.”

“And you’re scraping it back?” Steve says, amused.

“Yeah, it doesn’t do any damage. It’s just that it’d make the polish look weird if I left it. You’d get bumps and ridges.”

“Ah,” Steve says. 

He looks down at his hands again, aware that he’s accidentally started staring at James once more. 

When James has pushed the skin back and lifted it with a different scrape-y thing, he takes the nippers and hovers over Steve’s fingers for a few seconds.

“Yeah,” he says. “You don’t need it. Uh, but look, here,” he shows Steve his own hand instead, points at his cuticles with the nippers. “Just where it gets dry. There’s a bit.” He clips it off. “See?”

Steve nods.

“I see,” he says.

James trims his nails next, not that there’s much to trim. He has to neaten one or two - the nails on Steve’s middle and pinky fingers don’t grow as fast as the other three, and the same is true for both hands, so James just makes sure they’re the same length and shape. Then he files them.

“People say don’t use a sawing motion,” James says, miming the movement with the long, curved file, “which is true, but they also say to go in one direction,” he mimes that too, “which is wrong. What you should do is,” he places the file against the edge of Steve’s nail, “go from the center outward. Middle to this side, then middle to that side.” He moves the file. “See?”

Steve nods, smiling.

“I see,” he murmurs.

When James is satisfied that Steve’s cuticles are where they should be and his nails are clean, when he's happy with how they look and how smooth they are, he picks up one of the little bottles.

“This is polish,” he says, “but it’s matte. So it won’t look like you’re wearing polish, but it’ll protect them.

Steve nods.

“Okay,” he says.

James opens the bottle and the acrid scent of pear-drop/chemical fills his nose. He closes his eyes. It reminds him of Peggy. James paints every nail, including the edge, and just under the edge, too.

“It’s not so important with this,” James says, “but with gel, or colored polish, you have to cap the edge like that. It helps prevent chipping.”

Steve nods.

While the polish dries, James does his other hand - dries, lotions, scrapes, trims, files, paints. 

When he’s done all that, he paints oil around the cuticles of Steve’s other hand, the one he did first, because they’re dry. He does the same for the second once the polish has dried there, too.

Then he sits back and cocks his head.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “So. There you go.”

Steve lifts his hands and looks at his nails. They are neat. They do look better. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I tend to use my hands a lot, being an artist. It’s nice to have them look presentable.”

James smiles then, looks down and blushes.

“Oh, well,” he says, but he’s beaming. “Glad I could help.”

~

James does not let Steve see him change. Steve doesn’t really get why, but okay - he wants to change in private, that’s fine by Steve. When he comes back, he’s already wearing his coat.

“Ready,” he says, and Steve looks him up and down.

“You really don’t want me to see you, huh?” he says. “If you were wearing a fur coat I’d expect you to be naked under it.”

“Hey, that’s a pretty good idea!” James says. “Except ladies can get away with not wearing pants.”

Steve laughs.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go, honey - I don’t wanna be late for our ride."

~

“Are you even fucking kidding?” James says, as the limo pulls up to Pier 6 on the East River. 

Because it isn’t so much that they’re at the pier as it is that there’s a sleek, black helicopter sitting on the pad there. It reads _STARK_ with the swoosh across one side, and James just looks at Steve.

“I,” he says. “Should have asked if you’re okay with heights. I-I mean I thought you were ‘cause of the buildings but if-”

“I’m fine with heights,” James says. “I get to go in a _chopper_!?”

~

The chopper ride is great, it really is. The pilot flies them over so many landmarks James is afraid he’ll run out of space in the cloud, but he took some photos of Steve, some of himself, some of the two of them, and he suspects helicopter rides are good date ideas for the same reason scary movies are.

‘Cause yeah, he’s fine with heights inside a building, or on a plane. Kinda felt like being a pea in an eggshell while the chopper was up, though, and he’s not sure he’s ever clung onto Steve harder in his life.

“We don’t have to do this on the way back,” Steve says into his headset, not needing to raise his voice as much because this is a Stark chopper and it’s got reasonable soundproofing.

The _thud-thud-thud_ of the rotors is just about as fast as James’ heart, but James shakes his head.

“It’s great,” he says, and the chopper banks, and he tries to cut off the circulation in Steve’s arm.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “well just think about it when we land, no pressure.”

James nods, holds on tight. The doors are locked, the pilot experienced, their belts tight and the air clear. James worries anyway, but he still knows you can’t get a view like this anywhere else and, right now, they’re the only ones who get to have it. Except Iron Man, obviously, but that doesn’t count.

~

James sees, as they come in to land, what looks like a huge complicated snake of concrete, and it’s only as they’re coming down that he realizes that’s where they’re going.

“Racetrack?” he says, and Steve smiles at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re north of New York, don’t worry - still close. But yeah.”

James raises his eyebrows. 

There’s no crowd, so nobody’s racing. Which means they’re here to do something - maybe Steve’s-

Ohh wait, maybe Steve’s gonna do the bike stuff! James might actually get to hear the siren in person.

“Is it - !?” he says, and then bites his tongue.

Steve looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Ye-e-s?” he says, and James pulls a face.

“I don’t wanna ruin it,” he says.

Steve chuckles. 

“Want me to tell y-”

“YES!” James says. “Sorry!” 

Steve laughs.

“It’s the bike,” he says, long-suffering-but-not-really, and James yanks both fists towards himself.

“Yesss! I knew it!” he says. “Aha, I knew it!!”

Steve hauls him in and kisses him, and then rolls his eyes.

“And,” he says, and then they’re not descending any further. “Touchdown.”

James feels his mouth drop open.

“Oh,” he says and then he leans sideways to look out of the widow. “Shit, we landed? Damn, I didn’t even feel it, that was fuckin’ _soft!_ ”

“Hear that, Clint?” Steve says into his headset. “Soft.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he says, and wow, Clint Barton.

Ha, James didn’t even notice. 

Oops.

~

Steve’s bike is waiting for them. It sits sleek and dark on the track near the checkered line, kickstand down, and Steve leaves James there for two minutes. He comes back with a duffel bag and dumps it on the ground near the gate.

“A’right,” he says. “I’m gonna change. You’re gonna change.”

“ _I’m_ gonna change?” James says. “Me?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You.”

James feels a little warm just from the way Steve’s looking at him and, really, why would he argue with that?

~

There are facilities to change, which Steve allows James to use first, to maintain the secret of his outfit, and that means James gets to sit next to Clint and watch Steve walk out onto the asphalt like a-

Honestly, like a fantasy. Head to toe leather, sleek black helmet with his name on the visor, and a swagger that makes James’ knees weak.

“Woo!” Clint yells from next to James - not a whoop, just literally the word ‘woo’ - and waves his hotdog.

Steve flips the visor.

“Thank you, fan,” he calls, “but firstly where the hell did you get a hot dog-”

“I brought it!”

“-and secondly, this is our anniversary, Barton.”

“Aw, one lap?” Clint yells dejectedly. 

Steve leans on the bike, sets a hand on his hip, looks down at the floor. James laughs.

“Yeah, one lap!” he shouts, and Steve lifts his head, looks at him.

“Alright,” he says, “ _one_. And you can time me.”

Barton fumbles for his phone. James hears Steve chuckle as he gets on the bike, “oh my God.”

The Fastest Lap time is listed at the top of the red LED stack in the window of the grandstand, and says _TFMCL 2:25.33_. When James looks back at Steve, Steve is just looking back from it.

“Think you can beat it?” James says, and Steve just stares at him, only his sparkling eyes visible.

“Who d’you think set it, babe?” he says, and then he knocks the stand up, starts the bike, snaps the visor down.

And then he doesn’t go anywhere.

James frowns, looks at Clint.

“What?” he says.

Clint, who’s put his feet up on the backs of the chairs of the row in front, doesn’t even look at James. He speaks through his mouthful instead.

“Need a starter,” he says - and _then_ he looks at James. 

James looks at Steve, whose helmet is still turned towards him. He shakes his head, looks at Clint. He doesn’t have a flag or? Anything really?

He shrugs his shoulders, hunches them up and holds them there so Steve can see.

“I don’t…?” he says. 

The bike idles, Clint waits. 

So James does the only thing he can really think of and, sure that he looks like a complete fool, he stands up and holds his arm up.

Steve hunkers down, revs the bike twice. 

James laughs, amazed. He loves Steve so much. 

So he holds Steve’s gaze for a moment, waits just a little longer than necessary, and then swings his arm down with as much speed and strength as he can muster, and Steve’s _off_ , the bike roaring beneath him, a long line of sound that stretches out and away from James with such speed that he can’t help but stare open-mouthed. James watches him until he makes the corner - which is not long - stands up on his toes try and see better as he disappears, and then sinks back onto flat feet.

“This where you guys test?” he says.

“Yep,” Clint answers. “Most of the vehicles start out here. Stamina testing and shit like that’s a separate facility, and you don’t really need a track to test ‘em as is but, I mean…well…” 

He looks at James.

“Yeah, I get it,” he says - nothing beats putting your foot down.

James spends the whole two minutes waiting for Steve to come back, but he hears another sound along with it, and frowns, strains his ears. 

Clint shoves the last of his hot dog into his mouth, wipes his hands on his pants, and stands - phone held out in one hand, index finger of the other hand poised above it.

“Ahem,” he says, and James recognizes the sound now, tries to find his own phone.

He barely gets his phone out in time to see him reappear - what he hears is the sound of a fast-approaching Stark-upgraded Harley-Davidson Street 750, and a piercing, synthesized hi-lo siren, slow, and then faster as Steve comes around the corner so low to one side it looks like he ought to fall, and… James. Is _so_ turned on.

Siren wailing, lights in his grill flashing bright like red, white and blue stars in the late afternoon, here comes Steve, and James wants to _wave_ , like every little kid - there goes Captain America on his way to save somebody. And Steve, the sexy bastard, hits the horn a few times in rapid succession as he passes, throws a tiny fuckin’ _salute_ with two fingers and a turn of his helmet, hand up by his head so’s not to disturb the airstream, and crosses the line - _damn!_ \- so fast it makes James’ eyes water, doppler effect swinging the tone of his engine and the siren down sharp. 

“Wow,” James breathes, and Clint laughs,

“Haha, _yeeeeeah!”_ as Steve goes.

It’s weird, James thinks - his heart’s racing, and his breaths are coming faster and the back of his neck is warm and it makes him want to float off the ground, goosebumps flowing out over his skin like cold water. He felt the noise in his feet, in his chest, in his bones, and he’s grateful for the fact that leather doesn’t stretch, because he’s certainly not unaffected.

“What time?” he says to Clint, and Clint shakes his head.

“This one,” he says, “ain’t fair to time him from a standing start.”

James spends the next two minutes bouncing up and down where he stands. He _thinks_ he can still hear Steve, but that might be his mind playing tricks on him, the echo of the siren ringing fresh in his ears. He knows when he can hear it for certain, though, jigs up and down and zooms the phone in as he, wait for it - _there!_ \- swings the bike around the corner and doesn’t hit the horn this time, doesn’t turn his head, body pulled in low and tight to the bike’s body.

“Oh, oh!!” James says, unable to contain himself, and the noise the bike makes is so tangible James swears it’s like fingers up his spine.

“Woo!” it’s a whoop this time - “Two twenty-five twenty-nine, baby!” Clint crows, shows the phone to James and then to James’ phone camera. 

Even though he knows Steve’s beaten his own time, James looks at the LED stack in the window and…

It blinks out, comes back _TFMCL 2:25.29_. James smiles as Steve disappears around the corner again, nods at one of the security cameras. It’s probably Jarvis, and if it isn’t, it won’t matter.

The thing is, though, a fast lap is a fast lap, but then James is hearing less noise, more birds. He’s definitely not hearing the siren which, fine, if Steve turned it off. But he looks at his own phone after he starts to get antsy, assuming he’s just misjudging how long it’s taking but…no, it’s been two minutes and Steve’s not back yet. 

James frowns, looks at Clint, and Clint is busy pocketing his phone.

“A’ight,” he says, stretching. “That’s my cue, kid. Happy six months!” and he steps down the rows of seats in big lolloping strides like they’re stairs.

“Hey,” James says. “Is…where’s Steve?”

“He’s fine,” Clint says as he gets to the bottom of the stand - they weren’t that high up to start with. “See you around!” 

And he walks back into the building. 

The world is very quiet without someone to talk to, or a motorcycle screaming past, and it might only be an extra thirty seconds, but James is thinking of calling Steve to make sure all’s well.

But that’s when he hears it.

A different noise, new sound, low and wide instead of rich and narrow, a sound that James doesn’t know but wants to learn - it’s a bigger noise, a noise like a thunder, and James’ mouth drops open.

His heart beats fit to burst, he can’t get enough breath in, his hands shake because there, careening ‘round the corner sideways to hurtle down the track towards him is an open-top car that looks halfway between a Shelby Cobra and an F-Type Jaguar, shining gorgeous, chromatic, sparkling cobalt blue in the low sun, fiery red on the interior, suface like glass reflecting the trees, the clouds, the markings, the stands -

And she _squeals_ to a halt in four hundred yards, stopping in a cloud of tire smoke, at the end of a pair of tire marks, right before the finish line.

Steve, who’s sitting in the driver’s seat in his leathers, sans the helmet, with his aviators on instead, turns his head and looks at James. He slides his aviators down his nose.

“Hey there, sugar,” he says. “Need a ride?”

James gawps at him, for a full ten seconds.

“Fuck yeah,” he mutters, and then again, louder. _“Fuck yeah!”_

“Bring your helmet, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t get down the stands quite as quickly as Clint did but Clint is an Avenger and was not wearing motorcycle leathers. Once he’s down, though, he vaults the short wall because he was best in gym class at vaulting, okay, because he used to do dance, which he’s not telling anyone ever, and runs over to the car. 

“Where you headed?”

James laughs but then absolutely doesn’t get in.

“Uh,” he says, and Steve looks at him like he’s the best thing in the world, leans over and opens the door for him.

“You’re gonna have to leave fingerprints eventually,” he says. 

James gets in, fastens the seatbelt - which is more like a harness. 

“Remember what I told you?” he says, and James looks at him.

“She’ll do two hundred without breaking a sweat,” James answers. 

“Trained in hostage negotiation, advanced individual training and,” he revs the engine, “advanced evasive driving. Put on your helmet, honey.”

James feels his eyebrows go up.

“Seriously?” he says.

“Your helmet and your suit are made the same way as mine, and they’re made the same way as my _suit_ , because I need to live if I come off a motorcycle at high speed. I crash the car, the rollbar takes the brunt and your protection takes the rest,” he points at the silver roll bar and then at James. “We’ll both be fine, but I’m not takin’ this over forty if you ain’t wearin’ a helmet.”

James nods, lifts his helmet.

“What about you?” he says.

“Absolutely, babe,” Steve says - he says it ‘beb’ because his Brooklyn’s strong, and is already retrieving it from behind his seat. 

The aviators go in the glove compartment, and then Steve-

“Wait!” James says, and leans over to kiss Steve. “Okay.”

Steve smiles, and they both put their helmets on, visors up. 

_“Alright, now, listen carefully to me,”_ his voice says in James’ ear, _“because I want you to be ready for any eventuality.”_

James looks at him, his visor up too.

“Yeah?” he says.

 _“I have never, ever crashed a vehicle without intending to do so,”_ he says, _“sometimes in a very well-known capacity. That information aside, in the event of a crash, the car will protect you, it’s Starktech. Your protective clothing is a failsafe, but the harness is flextech-”_ James has seen the schematics for that, it’s revolutionized rally racing _“- the car will right itself wherever possible, and it will cocoon you in a protective pod in the event that it cannot._ Which means,” he says, pausing for extra emphasis _“keep your hands and your head inside the car, I_ mean _it. Okay?_ ”

James nods.

“Got it,” he says. 

Steve looks him over for a moment, and then nods.

 _“Alright,”_ he says. _“Let’s see what she can do, huh?”_

James nods, snaps his visor down as Steve does.

And then Steve puts his foot down.

~

They’ve hit two hundred and brought it back down, and Steve’s taken every corner sideways, by the time the radio crackles to life. And then…Clint’s voice? Clint’s voice, says,

 _“Ahhhhh, Eagle this is Nest, Eagle this is, ahhhh……Nest, do you Copy?”_ in literally the most over-the-top pilot voice James has ever heard.

Steve grabs the small black box off the dash and picks it up, and honest to God flips up the visor to just to narrow his eyes at the horizon.

 _“Copy, Nest, this is Eagle, go ahead,”_ he says, in his Commander Rogers voice, except emphasizing it a little more - he sorta sounds like John Wayne but with harder consonants.

“ _Ahhh, we got aaah…Seven-Three-Niner-Niner in progress,”_ Clint says, _“that’s Ahhhh…..ssemble all Personnel, repeat, this is aaannn….All Avengers Assemble, copy?”_

Steve sets his jaw, narrows his eyes a little more.

 _“Copy Nest,”_ he says in his Commander Rogers voice, puts his head down, _“don’t start the party ‘til we get there.”_ And then he shoves the little black box back against the dash, wrenches the gearshift to put the car in reverse, starts driving backwards. _“Whaddya say, babe?”_ he says, not even looking behind him, just using the mirror.

“Oh my god!” James says, delighted beyond saying anything more - a fake call? What an adorable dork.

Steve throws his whole body into the next move, his whole right-hand side into the handbrake, wrenches the wheel, and swings the whole car a hundred and eighty degrees on the track in seconds on a handbrake turn, hitting the sire- _the fucking convertible has sirens!!_ \- as he looks at James.

_“Let’s go save the world.”_

And then he crushes his foot to the floor, and James can’t help it, he wahoos for all he’s worth as they tear off down the track.

~

It’s two and a half laps before James can’t stand it any longer and tells him to pull over and suspend surveillance so he can tear off his helmet and climb into Steve’s lap and really show him what he thinks of the whole ridiculous incredible display.

Hands, mouths, and squeaking leather, one of them accidentally kicks the siren on halfway through but, honestly, who cares?

***

When they touch down again in New York, James having spent most of the chopper ride home tucked up against Steve’s side watching the scenery, it’s been dark for a while, and James feels all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

They leave the chopper carefully, and Steve says not to worry about the duffel with their leathers - much like the bike and the car, Clint will take care of them.

He thanks Clint on the way out of the chopper, and then Dana and the car are there and,

“Here,” James says, “selfie,” and they take one in front of the chopper on the waterfront, the sparkling lights out across the water behind them. 

“We’ve got reservations at the hotel,” Steve says in the back of the car, “but we don’t have to take it. They didn’t have private rooms, so we’d be out in the restaurant together but it’s…I mean, you can bring your notebook. O-Or we can go back up to the-”

“The restaurant,” James says, nodding, leaning over to cup Steve’s face in his hands. “I wanna try the restaurant.”

Steve expression is soft, and his smile is gentle.

“Alright,” he says, James leans forward for a kiss. “We’ll try. You want your gift in the restaurant?”

“God no,” James says, letting go again. “We said rings, right? I don’t want somebody thinkin’ it’s an engagement, we’d be in the papers in seconds.”

Steve laughs, nods, and slips his hand into James’, holding it in his lap.

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright.”

***

When they get back to the hotel, Steve sets him up in the bar and then asks James to give him fifteen minutes.

James goes to the restroom as soon as Steve’s gone, to touch up his hair and his makeup, and then he gets back to sit with his back to the room, so that nobody can stare as they pass, and Steve takes eleven of the fifteen minutes. When he comes back, he’s a different man - dressed in a dark blue two-piece with a crisp, white shirt and no tie, he’s shaved the shadow that grew over the course of the day, styled his hair, and he smells amazing. The suit’s a colder blue than James is used to seeing on him, leaning toward teal but not quite there, and it makes his eyes look pale and piercing.

“Shall we?” he says, and offers his arm, and James looks around - nobody’s watching or pointing phones in their direction, nobody’s hanging around outside the windows. 

James takes his arm.

The restaurant is cosy and dark - there’s a light over each table but it doesn’t spread very far outside the perimeter of the sort of ‘booth’ they’re in, sequestered away by old oak and frosted glass.

James lets Steve take his coat, but watches carefully as he does - he dressed a particular way for a particular reason, and he watches Steve’s reaction the moment he notices.

James is wearing pinstripes - just the pants and waistcoat - with a chequered blue shirt that's rolled up at the sleeves, and a long black tie cut across the middle with a silver tie-pin, and cinched at the top with a collar bar. With most of his hair in a bun and the rest in a wave over his forehead, he’s dressed exactly the way he was dressed the first time Steve ever saw him, with addition of a pair of socks (because it’s November) and the makeup he touched up, because he knows how to rock false eyelashes.

“Well look at you,” Steve says. “I thought about you, you know. After I saw you.” He laughs, but looks mesmerized as he looks James up and down. “I can’t wait to do unspeakable things to you.”

James raises an eyebrow.

“Been waitin’ long, Commander?”

“All my life,” Steve answers, and James feels the shock that must show on his face, feels the heat that follows after.

“Wow, smooth with a capital ‘Smoo,’ ” James says, and Steve bobs his eyebrows.

“You just wait,” he says. “I’ll show you _smooth.”_

“That doesn’t even make sense,” James laughs, and Steve shakes his head.

“And,” Steve says, “it's still working on you.” 

James doesn’t have to confirm it. He knows that Steve can see that it is. 

~

Dinner is a ridiculous affair of normal food plated to look insane. Some of it looks like it belongs in an art gallery, some of it looks like it belongs in a national park, and dessert is so fancy James would just as soon wear it as eat it.

But James gets restless about halfway through dessert, slips his foot from his shoe and runs it up Steve’s calf - Steve bangs his knee on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump, eyes wide, and then laughs.

“Ha, surprise,” he chuckles, and then rubs the probably-bruised joint. “Sorry.”

James tilts his head.

“Are you _nervous_?” he says.

“I know you are but what am I,” Steve says, deadpan, and James smiles, reaches out for his hand across the table.

“Awh!” he says. “That’s so sweet, why are you nervous?”

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose and holds it for a couple of seconds, pretending to think about it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I’m seeing this hot young man tonight and I want to make sure he likes me before I make a move.”

James wrinkles his nose as he laughs.

“What’s he into?” he says.

“Oh, the usual,” Steve answers. “Art, science, being a distraction, too cute for his own good.”

“He’s into being a distraction?” James says, and Steve just looks at him.

“Apparently so,” he says, and he’s looking at James in a very particular way, eyes half closed, mouth slightly open, his body gone still. “I was thinking of asking if he wanted to order coffee.”

“I’m sure he’d rather get it from room service later,” James answers, and Steve leans out from the table a little, holds up a hand, smiles over James’ shoulder before he leans back in.

He’s asking for the check, but James shakes his head.

“Have that coffee,” he says. “It’s my turn to take fifteen minutes.”

Steve gazes up at him as he stands, watches him pick up his coat, and James can feel Steve’s eyes on him all the way out of the room.

***

Steve does his absolute best not to run for the elevator when the fifteen minutes is almost up.

He’s ordered and finished his cappuccino, paid the check, and has proceeded to the elevator at a normal pace and no, he does not have a semi, because he’s good at not getting semis in public because it’s _really easy to get a semi in public when you’re a supersoldier_ (thank fuck the suit has a cup because, wow, post-fight adrenaline + TV cameras = PR nightmare otherwise) and then he spends the whole journey in the elevator jigging up and down. 

It fucking _stops_ too, there’s a lady who’s chronologically-younger but practically-very-much-older than Steve, and she’s taking the elevator from her daughter’s floor to her own, which Steve knows because she gets in and tells him so before she leaves. He’s polite. He’s very nice, asks her if she wants a walk back to her room. She laughs, declines, leaves, and then Steve only doesn’t mash the elevator button because he knows he might break it if he does. 

When the doors open, he power-walks. ‘Cause he’s not gonna run, he is forty-two years old, he is a professional and an adult and he can restrain himself.

He nearly takes the hotel door off its hinges when he gets it open, and he chucks his jacket as soon as he’s in - doesn’t care where it lands. He goes in the living room and James isn’t in the living room, so he goes in the bedroom, and James isn’t in there either. The curtains are closed.

“That you?” James says from the next room through, the dressing room, and Steve takes two steps before James speaks again. “Sit down in the armchair.”

Steve looks at the open door. Then he does as he’s asked.

James makes him wait a few more seconds before he appears in the doorway, and the thing is, James looks very good in those clothes. Okay, yeah, Steve _is_ hard, he’s only got so much willpower. Most of it is going into not-clawing through the arms of the armchair.

“Hi,” he says.

Steve wets his lips.

“Hi,” he answers. “Honey.”

James comes out into the room and, yeah, James does look _very_ good in those clothes - Steve shifts in the chair a little.

“What’s goin’ on?”

James smiles, scrapes his teeth over his lower lip as he walks a little closer.

“I got you something,” he says, saunters close, holds out a hand.

“Hmm,” Steve says, interested, and he takes James’ hand and pulls him closer still as he sits forward, wraps James’ arms around his waist. “Is this that thing I gave you my card for?”

James nods.

“Yep,” he says. “Actually, I need to give you back your card.”

Steve laughs.

“And see,” James says, and he takes a step back again, “I _was_ thinking maybe you could show me what you wanted to do to me the last time I looked like this.”

Steve nods.

“Sounds good,” he says, “there was a _lot_.”

But James smiles, shakes his head.

“Yeah,” he says, “but then I thought I’d show you something else.”

He goes for the buttons on the waistcoat first, one, two, three, and eases it back off his shoulders. Throws it, yeah, good start.

The tie’s next, which he unpicks, although the tie bar and collar cinch are already gone, and he slides it out of the collar, and then flips in Steve’s direction. Steve catches and ignores it, but holds onto it because he might want it later.

James; suspenders are next, down off his shoulders, and the shirt after that, and James keeps his eyes on Steve as he unbuttons it - he’s going needlessly slowly but Steve would without a doubt ruin the shirt by tearing it open, and it’s a nice shirt, that would be a shame. When the buttons are open, Steve just rakes his gaze over James’ body, watches him peel the shirt back and throw that, too. He was wearing his black rhinestone collar underneath it, and it sparkles in the hotel’s lighting, makes his throat look even longer and paler than usual.

Then, James opens his fly, and-

Steve nearly swallows his tongue - under his suit pants, as James eases them down over his hips and thighs, James is wearing a garter belt, with black lace underwear, and sheer black hold-up stockings. He lets his pants fall and steps out of them in the same movement and Steve-

Steve’s - 

James looks like an Elvgren, and Steve has never in his life felt like this before - he likes lingerie, he likes men, but he’s never seen both at once in person.

“What do you think?” James asks, and Steve stares at him.

James is hard, and has tucked his cock upward so the flushed head peeks up between the waistband of his shorts and the lace of his garter belt. He looks-

“You look amazing,” Steve rasps, his throat dry. “You look amazing. I really want you out of those though, gorgeous as they are - you got these this week?”

“Yeah I did,” James says. “And I’ll undress if you want but…” he turns so he’s got his back to Steve, puts his hands on his thighs and slides them all the way down past his knees, bending at the waist to show him - 

Oh - 

Steve’s finding it difficult to breathe past the fog of _want_ and the pressure of his dick in his pants, and he also can’t take his eyes off James’ ass. He doesn’t _have_ to take them off because there’s no seam at the back. Okay.

“Where d’you want me?” James says, and Steve tries two or three times to make his mouth work.

“Here,” he croaks eventually, “come,” he has to swallow hard, “here.”

James straightens up, walks off and Steve is about to protest when he realizes James is going for the lube and a condom. 

He comes back with them, puts the condom in his mouth and puts the lube down on the arm of the chair. Steve takes it so it doesn’t fall off, and then James is settling his hands on Steve’s knees to spread his legs, and kneeling fluidly between them. He takes the condom out of his mouth a moment later, sets it on Steve’s stomach.

“Want me to suck your cock?” he says, and Steve-

James has gone very, very pink over his cheeks, which suggests that he’s doing his utmost not to balk in the face of such a brazen display, but Steve’s hooked, Steve is caught, he’s done. 

“No, I wanna fuck you,” Steve says - they’ll make love later, right now there’s something growling inside of him and it doesn’t want to wait. 

James smirks, slides his hands up from Steve’s inner thighs, over his cock and up to the button on his fly. As much as Steve wants him to _hurry up_ , it’s clear that James is feeling sexy in his underwear, is trying to do something sexy for Steve, and will not take much to spook. Steve sits perfectly still.

He sits perfectly still until James gets his cock out, anyway, because then he has to hold onto the chair or catapult himself into space.

James sees the reaction, laughs, and opens the condom to roll it down onto Steve’s cock. Steve is losing his ability to restrain himself, fast. Once the condom’s on him, James sucks him down just the once, presumably to see what Steve does (what Steve does is nearly lose his deposit on account of property damage), and then grabs the lube and Steve’s had enough.

Steve reaches out and hooks his finger in the leash loop on the front of James’ collar, tugs hard enough that James gets the picture but reels him in slowly enough that James can get his feet under him. Steve kisses him once he’s within kissing distance - sits forward to do it and then sits back without letting go of James, so that James has to follow him backwards, down.

James does it like he’s practiced it, and manages to get his legs up on the arms of the chair to straddle Steve as Steve lets go of the collar to grab at the bun in James’ hair with one hand, the other hand held palm-up between them.

“On me,” he says, and James flicks the lube cap and gets a ton in Steve’s palm. “Good.”

Then Steve wraps his arm around James’ waist, and James sticks his ass out without even being asked, the movement parting the fabric over his ass. Steve presses the tips of his slick fingers over James’ hole, and then sinks two in because he can feel James has prepped. 

“Oh,” James groans, hands on Steve’s shoulders, then on his head. _“Oh,_ fuck,” and Steve withdraws his fingers, brings his hand back around to push it between between them and coat his own cock.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough, “that’s it, just fuckin’-”

James does, waits for Steve to line himself up and then just pushes down, his body opens up for Steve and they both groan as it does. It feels so good, he’s so _hot_ and he’s tight and he smells so good and Steve starts trying to devour him, starting with his neck. James just hugs Steve’s head close with both arms and Steve, Steve doesn’t even wait. He re-situates himself in the chair and starts thrusting upward, fast because he can’t take it slow, mouthing over James’s skin because he doesn’t have the coordination to kiss properly, dry hand in James’ hair, the other gripping the meat of his ass. James just kneels over his lap and takes it, moaning brokenly, grasping and clutching, and Steve’s not even going to last two minutes.

He’ll have to watch it, too, he’s already sweating and he’s trying not to bruise James but it’s so good.

James holds him close, arms tight around his head and Steve can’t see but he doesn’t really need to, he could lift and throw James like James is nothing so it’s no hardship to fuck up into him like his life depends on it, and James seems absolutely on board too.

“Yeah,” James says, and Steve feels pressure on the top of his skull, it’s probably James’ head.

His breath is hot and damp between them, over James’ skin, and the _noise_ it makes to fuck him, skin and lube and the creak of the chair too, it’s obscene-

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he manages, and James pushes back, too, meets him thrust for thrust.

James starts making a noise every time Steve bottoms out - which is about twice a second at this point - and Steve’s got no restraint left beyond _don’t break his hips_.

“Ohn,” Steve manages, “ohn,” it’s a thinner sound the second time, rougher, higher and - “ah, _ghu-ohfuck-_ ”

He comes so hard his stomach muscles ache, thrusting up, up, his whole face screws up so he sees white noise behind his eyelids and groans so hard the back of his throat feels raw. 

“Oh fuck,” he says again, and James is just making encouraging noises, clenching tight around him. 

It takes a good twenty or thirty seconds for him to get past it and start thinking again, and James is still rocking aside him when he has to shake his head, lean back and put a hold on it a sec.

“Wait, wait,” he says, way more out of breath than he thought he’d be, “sorry, just…y’okay?”

James’ neck is read where Steve’s been at it, and he’s got sweat on his skin, too. Steve’s still inside him though, and James flexes his legs enough to lift up and sink down twice.

“Better if you don’t stop,” he says, and Steve draws his hand around from James’ ass, palm up, cups him through the lace instead.

His balls are small and smooth through the lace, drawn up tight, and-

“You’re wearing a ring?” he says. “You’re wearing a cock ring under all this?”

“Happy Anniversary,” he says, “Commander.”

And Steve just looks up at him.

“You?” he says. “You’re giving me you, are you sure that’s wise?”

James rolls his hips - Steve has to close his eyes and breathe - and smirks.

“Do your worst,” he says, and Steve laughs.

“How ‘bout my best,” he says. “Get on the bed.”

James wets his lips, leans down and kisses Steve, and then gets up - it’s a move that makes them both groan - and then saunters to the bed. 

Steve strips off the condom and goes for another, and James goes and sits on the bed.

“Ass up,” Steve says, turning his finger in a circle. 

James bites his lip, squeezes his legs together for a second but then does as he’s told, standing up to get back on the bed on all fours instead.

When Steve’s put a fresh condom on, he tucks his dick back into his shorts and goes and stands at the end of the bed.

“Ass _up_ ,” he says, hand between James’ shoulder blades, and James slowly lowers his upper body to the mattress.

Steve lets him take his time because he knows James _wants_ to do it, but he also knows there’s still part of James that’s shy, and maybe always will be. And for someone who’s shy to wear split-back underwear and put his ass in a position that deliberately opens them, its no easy thing - Steve knows how difficult it must be for him and couldn’t be more appreciative of it.

Plus, his ass is a thing of beauty, and Steve tries not to think things like that but sometimes he can’t help it - it’s small and smooth and round, and it fits his hands, and it’s tight inside and James arches his back against the bed when Steve gets near, shuffles his knees apart just a little so that pretty pink hole’s exposed, wet and sensitive.

“Hands,” Steve says, and James puts them behind his back, so Steve makes a loop in the tie - no knot - and slips it over his wrists. Then wraps it around once, pulls so it’s reasonably tight, and presses the ends into James’ palm. “Let go if you need to,” he says. 

And then he goes back and grabs the lube, slicks up his hand again.

He uses the flat of his fingers to stroke James’ perineum, from just where the cock ring sits around his balls all the way up over his hole. He presses the tips of his fingers over it but doesn’t push inside, and he shakes his hand instead.

James’ hole clenches, he feels it, and James toes turn inward, scrunching up - Steve doesn’t have a foot thing but his feet sure look cute in those stockings.

“Mmh,” James says, a little plaintive, and Steve uses his middle finger to push the lube up over James’ hole so that, when he sinks his finger inside, it’s easy and smooth. “Ohh,” James whines, and Steve’ll get his tongue in there in a minute, for sure. 

For now, he massages around until he finds James’ prostate (not that he doesn’t know where it is, but it’s nice to pretend), and then he doesn’t bother with preliminaries, he doesn’t try building up. He just starts rubbing James off from the inside with his finger, long, deep thrusts angled perfectly where it needs to be.

James’ fingers curl around the ends of his tie, he moans softly into the mattress, and then he hisses in through his teeth.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, but it comes out high and needy - Steve loves it.

He keeps James like that for maybe a minute, but it’s not enough, he doesn’t just want James to enjoy it, he wants James to love it, wants to give James the kind of pleasure you can only get with partner, the kind of orgasm you can only get letting somebody else coax your body into it. He withdraws his middle finger and uses his index instead to rub at James’ prostate, using the others to rub against his perineum on the outside and James gives him a sharp cry for his trouble, his spine undulating as his shoulders shift.

“Want me to eat you out?” Steve says, and James moans softly.

“Oh,” he says, “that's so-”

“Ahuh,” Steve says, and he gets down on one knee and then the other, still moving his fingers, and leans forward, closes his mouth over James’ balls through the lace, tongues at the cock ring. “Yes?”

 _“Yes!”_ James says, half muffled in the bedclothes but a definite affirmative, so Steve gets to work.

James’ dick is still in the…panties? Is that what they are? James’ dick is still in his underwear, and Steve could take the shorts off - he’s seen the snaps on the side - but he wants them on, he wants to fuck James a little more in them.

James is whining on every thrust of his fingers, sometimes just gasping for breath without making any noise at all, and Steve wants to fuck him into an orgasm just to feel the way he pulses around his cock.

When he withdraws his hand (there’s lube everywhere and he _does not_ care at all) he shoves his face in instead, hard and mean, gets his mouth over James’ hole so James bucks up against him and keens. Steve gets his tongue as far inside as he can, opens him up because he wants to, scrapes his teeth over James’ perineum just to feel him shiver.

He does it over and over, alternating, finding the best way to do it and never doing the same things in the same order, so James never knows what’s coming. At one point, he spreads James with both hands and just watches the muscle twitch.

“Want me to…fuck you?” he says, between not being able to use his mouth for speaking, and James kind of sags forward against the bed. “Huh?”

“Yeees please,” he groans, and Steve sits back, “kinda want you to wear the aneros too.”

Steve shakes his head, gets back onto his feet. It’s a nice idea.

“Haven’t got it with me,” he says, lining up, God, James’ skin is gorgeous, his whole body, the length of that spine. “Next time.”

“I’m gonna,” James says, “hold you to- _f-uck,_ oh fuck, _fuck!”_

Steve grits his teeth - he didn’t even get soft after the last orgasm, he could come again pretty fucking soon if he’s not careful. 

“Fuck, yeah,” James mutters, hands curling into fists, tight enough he looks like he’s trying to snap the tie. 

“A’ight, keep still,” Steve says, “keep your ass up, I’ll get a better angle on you that way.”

James kind of groans something and Steve holds his hips with both hands and doesn’t move.

“Gimme a yes, babe,” Steve says, careful not to move until James does.

But James does immediately, goes boneless in the mattress and says, 

“Please fuck me, _please fuck me,”_ and Steve’s perfectly happy to oblige. 

He really probably should be a little gentler, but James makes happy noises and laughs and moans at him with sounds that get broken up into pieces by how hard Steve’s fucking into him, and even if Steve weren’t in love with him, even if Steve didn’t feel amazing right now, the way James sounds and the way he looks and the way he feels would be more than enough to get him off.

 _“Fuck,_ kid,” and pretty much the whole thing is like that, just half-muttered cures and various noises until James whines and sort of-

It looks like he’s trying to walk away using only his shoulders.

“Ohn, fuck, ah-fuck, _fuck fuck, Steve!”_

And then Steve remembers he’s in his pretty underwear on a hotel bed but it’s too late now - James comes hard, and Steve doesn’t let up, fucking him through it until James is hissing and whining and twisting about on the bed.

It’s only when he gasps “stop, stop!” that Steve does, and he comes to rest inside James just because that’s where he was when James spoke.

James’ muscles are still fluttering around him, and it’s maddening.

“Y’okay?” Steve pants, and James nods, lets go of the tie so it unwinds from around his hands, and reaches up to grab the bedclothes up by his head.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding a little more just to make his point.

And then he laughs breathlessly, and - Steve’s the luckiest guy in the world - says,

“Alright,” between gasping breaths. “You can keep going.”

***

After, when they’ve washed and brushed teeth, and after room service has brought champagne and more chocolate strawberries, and a little cake for two with a chocolate tablet on top that says “Happy Anniversary” in unnecessary cursive, they’re sitting together on the bed, in bathrobes, with the main light out and the sconces and the nightstand lamps on instead, and James says,

“Wanna do rings?”

after a fairly long silence. 

James has his back to Steve’s chest and Steve’s been feeding him strawberries like you’d feed grapes to a Roman emperor, but James is anxious to give Steve his gift. 

“Sure,” Steve says. “After you.”

James gets up, and goes to get Steve’s, and Steve goes over to his bag and fumbles for a minute.

When he comes back, James is already back on the bed, and Steve sits next to him, facing him.

“Ceremony and speeches,” Steve says, “or handing it over?”

James leans forward, kisses Steve. Then he holds up the box. 

“Happy Anniversary,” he says, and Steve smiles, holds up a similar looking box.

“Happy Anniversary,” he answers. 

Steve takes James’ box and James takes Steve’s, and then…

James looks at it. It’s…not what he was expecting. He was expecting a smooth, flat band, but this is…rounded, looks like it was…hammered?

“Oh, honey,” Steve says, and he takes James’ ring out of the box.

It’s blued metal, simple enough, with mother of pearl inlay. It’s just blue, with the star and bars of his Commander’s uniform, but he looks astounded by it.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “This is gorgeous, did you have this made?”

“Yeah,” James smiles, and Steve grabs him by the front of his bathrobe and kisses him.

“Thank you,” he says, reaching up for the back of his own neck. “I’ll put it on my chain.”

And James - a lump forms in James’ throat.

“Wow, really?” he says, and Steve looks at him.

“Huh?” he says, smiling as he threads the ring on the chain. “Yeah. Put my Jameses together, that way I can take it on missions.”

James watches him put the chain back on, and then looks down at his own ring. It's beautiful, almost dappled metal and it…says something on the inside?

“What _is_ this?” he says, taking it out to squint.

The light’s too low really.

“It’s a ring, but it was a silver quarter,” he says, “minted the year I was born.”

“Holy shit,” James says, looks at him, “did _you make this_?”

Steve smiles, and James knows that smile. That’s his _‘I’m pleased you like it but don’t make a fuss about it’_ smile, and no, no way, James isn’t going to play this one down at all.

“You made this,” he says. “You made this out of a coin that’s as old as you are, and you made it just for me.” He puts it on - it fits perfectly on his pinky. “I’ll bet you did it by hand, too,” he says. “Right? Bet you used like…a rock and a nail or something.”

“Uh, I used a hammer,” he says, “but yeah. Also a nail.”

James shakes his head in disbelief, holds his hand out and looks at the ring shining there.

“You adorable fuckin’ caveman, you gotta do everything by hand for me,” he says, “you’d light me a fire and drag in a mammoth if you could.”

“If you wanted one,” Steve answers, eyes sparkling.

James kisses him, gets up on his knees and kisses Steve.

“I love you,” he says. “It’s perfect, I love it.”

Steve smiles, reaches up and brushes James’ hair off his forehead.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

James gets off him and sits back down on the bed and…Steve moves then, reaches down and picks something off the floor. 

“Now,” Steve says, “I know we said keepsakes. And I know we’re not doing huge gifts but I thought of something. And I wanted to give it to you for Christmas but Christmas is still a month and a bit away and I got impatient.”

“What?” James laughs. “You can’t wait a month.”

“No,” Steve says. 

In his hand is a long, flat black box. If James were in a movie, he’d expect some kind of ridiculous diamond necklace but, not only does James have zero need for a diamond necklace, not only would James be terrified to wear one, he knows Steve wouldn’t get him one without discussing it with him first. 

In fact, Steve would probably get him a moissanite necklace instead and donate the difference to charity because he’s just that sweet.

James raises an eyebrow but tugs the lid off the box and finds-

It’s a strap made of two layers - one thick on the underneath, one thinner on top, with a buckle and holes, oh wow,

“Oh _wow_ ,” he says, because he knows what this is. 

To begin with it’s tan colored, and it’s also leather. James can _smell_ it, it’s leather, and it’s _gorgeous._ It’s been tooled expertly, with a border that stands clean and proud over the dark, textured background between the delicate embossed scrollwork and almost three-dimensional flowers - aquilegia and ivy if he’s not mistaken. 

In the very center is a ring-head rivet, from which a metal loop dangles, both gold like the buckle and rivet. 

It’s the most gorgeous collar James has ever seen, and it feels really surreal to be looking at one as a romantic gift.

“This is,” he breathes, looking at Steve, “it’s gorgeous.” Steve visibly relaxes and James reaches out with one hand to grab Steve’s wrist. “It’s _beautiful!_ ” 

And, this time, the corner of Steve’s mouth ticks up. 

“Good,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it, I know it’s very light, and it’s a little plain-”

“A little plain?” James says in disbelief. “Have you _seen_ the tooling on this thing?”

“I would say so, yes,” Steve says, and James is surprised by that answer for a moment until he realizes what Steve means.

“You…” holy shit “you _made this too_ ,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’m really glad you like it-”

“I love it!” James says. “You _made_ this, I love it, it’s gorgeous, will you put it on me?”

Steve smiles, broad and dazzling.

“In a minute, sweetheart,” he says. “Now that I know you like this, there’s something else.”

“Steve,” James says, because no, seriously, really? “Steve we said one thing each!”

“Shush, be grateful I’m not trying to pay your rent.”

James passes his hand over his eyes.

“Seriously,” he says, “this is so much.”

“Well this all is for both of us, isn’t it?” he says, and James chews his lower lip for a second.

He nods.

“Good,” Steve says again, and the next box is similar but a little wider.

James takes it, bemused, and gently tugs this lid from this one too and-

James knows what it is instantly, because he’s wanted one forever and told Steve so a long time ago - it’s an over-the-mouth gag. 

It’s shaped like a rectangle with a shallow curve taken out of one long edge. From the short edges protrude two long, thin straps - one ends in a buckle, the other tapers to a point, holes punched at regular intervals - with another set of straps riveted to the first. Perhaps a fourth of the way from the main piece to the ends.

The rectangle will cover his face from septum to chin without obstructing his ability to breathe through his nose, because that missing curve will _accommodate_ his nose. It’ll strap at the back of his neck and over the crown of his skull so it can’t slip, it will cover his mouth and stay where Steve puts it and the thing is, the thing is, it’s just as beautiful. 

A rose, a dog rose, fuchsia, baby’s breath and a lily in the center, directly over where James’ mouth will lie beneath it, patterned like the collar. This will cover James’ mouth so Steve doesn’t have to, this will leave Steve’s hands free to do whatever he wants.

“Steve,” he says, can’t think of anything else to say as he shakes his head, “oh, Steve.”

He pushes up onto his feet and grabs at Steve, kisses him.

“Put it on me,” he says. “Both of them, I want to match, they’re gorgeous, put them on me!”

Steve chuckles softly.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he says. “How about the collar first, huh? You can have the panel gag when we’re done talking about it.”

 _Pnael_ gag. _That_ explains why James could never find one.

***

They don’t play with the leather collar and the gag that night. Steve takes James into the bathroom to show him what he looks like wearing them, promises terrible, wonderful things in James’ ear for another time, but they end the evening, they go to bed, by making love in the low light, with nothing between them and nothing atop them.

James lies with his upper body turned onto his back, but his hips tilted away, with Steve lying half-spooning alongside him, thrusting slow and smooth while they kiss like they never need to stop, while Steve just holds one of James’ legs like it’s nothing.

“Next time,” Steve says after, “I’ll take you to a different Waldorf. There’s one known for being Art Deco. But you’ll need a passport.”

“A passport?” James says, and Steve smiles.

“It’s in Shanghai.”

“How long in advance you have to book that?” James says. 

“About a year,” Steve answers, looking at him, just…just looking at him.

That sinks in slowly.

“And how about here?” James says softly. “How long in advance you have to book this?”

Steve kisses him softly.

“’Bout six months,” he says.

They fall asleep with Steve’s head on James’ chest and his arm around James’ waist, after he’s put out the lamps and gotten up to open the curtains, the sparkling lights of New York city outside as they drift off.

***

In the morning, they pack up and check out, and stop for lunch together at a deli before James goes on to work, and Steve heads back to the conversion with his flowers. James’ll see him tonight, but it’s still a wrench to part.

The first thing he does when he gets into work is get a milkshake for himself, and one for Amy, and he sits down at his desk before she’s back from lunch. She sees him as she comes in and grins, waving and, when she sits down, he leans a little closer to her and says,

“Boy do I have a story to tell you.”

He’ll show her most of the pictures, and he’ll tell her about most of the weekend but she doesn’t notice the hammered, hollowed-out quarter on his little finger and, really, he’s glad.

Right there, in front of everybody, it’s his little secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used various car and track statistics, including but not limited to the Bugatti Veyron and the Monticello Motor Club. 
> 
> TFMCL stands for Track Fastest Motor Cycle Lap, and 7-3-9-9, the fake code Clint uses, is the numbers you get if you type “sexy” on a landline (or old cellphone) keypad, because Clint’s the world’s dorkiest wingman but he knows what’s up.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Thanks for reading the interlude!** The next art should begin fairly soon, except that (as those of you who follow me will know) I lost a lot of work this month, and subsequently had a...less than successful trip to the dentist. So the next update may not be as soon as you're used to. Thanks for your patience thus far (i know this update was slow, too)!
> 
> **All your lovely comments are so kind! If you have anything you'd like to ask about this fic, or any of my other fics, please feel free to come and ask me on tumblr - my username's the same there - and I'll be happy to chat! If you’d like rare updates, I’m @justanononline on twitter these days. @ me to get my attention.**
> 
>  
> 
> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10, and here is a [a link to the next part of the timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/5f3c9fff19fe97660662611079013dad/tumblr_ps0mw599GT1s2056to1_500.png) from part 11 to 21.


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